


The Hollow Dark

by hungryhippolyta



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Author Does Not Speak Welsh So Here Goes Nothing, Canon-Typical Violence, Daemons, F/F, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Same-Sex Daemons, Slow Burn, Welsh Character, Welsh Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-03-31 20:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungryhippolyta/pseuds/hungryhippolyta
Summary: Fourteen hundred years before Lyra Belacqua's fateful discoveries, the nature of Dust is an arcane mystery. Sorcerers, warlocks and witches roam the island of Albion, forced into hiding by a ruthless King and a Magisterium still in its infancy. The future of Brytain will be determined by those who can control Dust...or by those who seek to destroy it.Meanwhile, Merlin, a young warlock fleeing persecution, finds a new home right under the nose of his greatest enemy. He's destined to protect the Once and Future King -- but then again, the dragon in the basement might be a bit cracked in the head. And between hiding his magic from one Uther Pendragon and keeping his still-unsettled dæmon a secret, Merlin's got enough on his plate already...





	1. An Unsettled Feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Says He Is An Experimental Theologian](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062757) by [ErinPtah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah). 



“Can’t you keep up?” Merlin shouted. The wind whipped his words away almost before he could hear them. “It’s getting dark, you know!” 

He paused, shifting the weight of his pack to his other shoulder. A small, shaggy pony trotted over the hill’s crest, stumbling down the rocky trail and leveling an evil glare at the boy as he passed. Merlin sighed. “I don’t see _you_ carrying the luggage,” he grumbled, starting after the pony. “Besides, you could use the exercise. And just smell that fresh air!” He gestured wildly at the rugged moors. “Can’t get this kind of scenery back in Ealdor!” 

The pony halted at the edge of another ridge, sniffing the air suspiciously. “Smells like sewers and horseshit to me,” he snorted. “Must be close to Camelot.” 

“Do you think they’ll have aqueducts?” Merlin said brightly. “Mum told me the _Rhufeiniaid_ built aqueducts in all their citadels. And Will says he heard everyone in Camelot has a private bath!” 

“Doesn’t smell like it,” the pony grunted, trotting down the steep hillside. “Don’t think Camelot was Roman-built, in any case. But we’ll find out soon enough.” He glanced back at Merlin, making sure the boy didn’t lose his footing while gaping at the view. “Mind the trail, would you--” 

He stumbled, hooves skittering across a patch of loose rock. “Gah!” 

“Aithusa?” Merlin shouted, squinting back down the trail. “Aithusa!” The pony was gone. Merlin shielded his eyes from the rough wind, searching. His heart pounded high in his chest. 

“Be _careful,”_ hissed a voice in Merlin’s ear. He jumped, then sighed with relief. A bedraggled sparrow hopped from his pack to his shoulder. “This footing is treacherous,” Aithusa scolded. “Could you at least _try_ to keep your eyes on the road?” 

“You sound more like Caron every day,” Merlin huffed, earning himself a peck. He skirted carefully around a patch of loose shale. “You’re the one barging ahead! _And_ shifting in public! You know what Mum said--” 

“The empty countryside is hardly ‘public,’ Merlin,” the bird replied snippily. “Besides, I thought we should be _enjoying_ our first day of freedom.” Aithusa darted from Merlin’s shoulder without waiting for a reply, tiny brown wings fluttering madly as he burrowed into the wind. He was quickly swept backwards, feathers twitching and blackening as he tumbled, and the newly-formed raven flexed his powerful wings and soared ahead. 

“Oi! Wait up!” Merlin jogged after his dæmon, feeling a familiar tug in his heart at the separation, and a newer, fresher jolt in his belly as the wind whipped through his hair. He grinned, racing Aithusa down the trail. _Freedom._ The boy let out a wild whoop. From far down the hillside, a few alert rabbits were startled by a fountain of sparks showering into the air. 

 

\---

 

A day later, the citadel finally appeared. First a dark speck huddled in the hills, then a toy castle, then a looming city, with gates like closed fists. Merlin’s spirits sagged down to his boots. His back creaked from their chilly night in the moors; Aithusa’s broad, shaggy belly had provided a decent pillow, but even his brown bear form couldn’t protect Merlin from his sore muscles the next morning. The dæmon was even grouchier than usual, keeping close to Merlin’s heels as a loping hare and glancing nervously at the imposing city gates. 

“Better decide now, I suppose,” Merlin muttered, eyes fixed on the trail. “Have you settled yet?”

“Ha ha,” Aithusa replied drily. “I thought we’d _settled_ on a field mouse.” The hare stopped to scratch one long ear. “Or have you changed your mind again?” 

“I just don’t think it’s….us,” Merlin admitted. “I mean, do we _seem_ like a field mouse? Will it be convincing?” 

“Merlin, the whole point is that nobody’s going to see us. We might as well pretend to be an ant, or something.” Aithusa shuddered. “Or a _beetle.”_

“But if someone did see you,” Merlin interrupted, “I mean, who would look at you and think, ‘field mouse, right, that’s the dæmon of a powerful and charismatically handsome warlock?’ It just doesn’t...fit.”

“As it should be,” the hare replied, bounding into Merlin’s arms and shrinking into an ebony-furred vole. “We’re supposed to keep a low profile, remember?”

“I remember.” Merlin smiled faintly and stroked his dæmon’s shining black fur. Even as a rodent, Aithusa could never be _ordinary._ He gently placed the vole in a coat pocket and shouldered his pack, picking up his pace. “Come on, then,” Merlin muttered, feeling the tiny, reassuring weight of Aithusa jostling against his side. “Destiny awaits!” 

 

\---

 

“Where do we apply for a new destiny, again?” Aithusa whispered, faintly. The tiny rodent shivered in Merlin’s pocket. “Because this is _not_ what we signed up for.”

Merlin cupped Aithusa’s pocket with one hand, stroking his soft fur with his thumb. The warlock sat, shaken, huddled against an empty market stall. The crowd of humans and dæmons had dispersed from the adjacent square; an eerie quiet hung over the once-rowdy marketplace. A group of soldiers stood by the execution block, standing guard as the body of Thomas Collins was dragged away. 

Merlin shuddered, closing his eyes, remembering the woman’s scream from somewhere in the crowd as the sentence was announced--

_This man, Thomas James Collins, is adjudged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic--_

Collins had stumbled, as he stepped onto the block. His dæmon, a dusty black starling, drooped in the jaws of a soldier’s cat dæmon. 

_I pride myself as a fair and just king, but for the crime of sorcery, there is but one sentence I can pass--_

The King’s voice was cold as gravestone, carrying easily across the crowded square. He nodded to the executioner, who raised his weapon, adder dæmon wound tightly around his thick neck. Collins’ dæmon shuddered, wings fluttering uselessly. 

The axe swung, and the starling dissolved in a puff of dust. 

Merlin couldn’t tell if Aithusa was shaking, or if his own hand was trembling. They had seen dead bodies, even helped bury a few in the village, but they had never watched a man die before. His body had looked so...empty. Merlin shivered and clutched Aithusa tighter. 

“Excuse me,” came a gentle voice. “You all right?”

Merlin lifted his head, and saw a warm, brown hand extended towards him. 

“Yeah.” He clasped it, and was pulled upward with surprising strength. “Thanks.” 

“You’re very welcome,” the woman responded. Her dæmon -- a wooly sheepdog -- snuffled the air. He must have borne a strange look, because the woman hesitated, exchanging a glance with her dæmon. “Look, I don’t mean to presume, but do you need any help?” She smiled at him with warm, worried eyes. 

“Do I look that lost?” Merlin replied, managing a faint grin. “Oh, absolutely,” her dæmon chimed in, wagging her tail slightly. “Like a chicken in a fox den, you are.” 

“Someone’s got to look after us lowborn _gwerin,”_ the woman continued, “and since nobody up there’s about to--” she nodded her head at the castle spires-- “it’s up to me to round up the confused country bumpkins, before they get pickpocketed or worse.” 

“I hope you’re not including me in your quota of country bumpkins,” Merlin replied, the chill in his heart fading away. “I’ll have you know, back in my own castle, I am lord and master to a court of _very_ fine chickens.” 

“My! Well, your highness,” the women responded, sweeping into a mocking curtsey, “where might this humble lady’s maid escort you today?” 

Merlin smiled crookedly. “Do you happen to know a physician named Gaius?” 

“We might,” her sheepdog dæmon replied, tail wagging in earnest. “But what names shall we announce you by, as we enter the royal court?” 

“His name’s Merlin,” came a voice from his pocket. Merlin glanced down in surprise. “I’m Aithusa. And don’t believe a word he says,” the vole added, one beady eye peeking out. 

“Gwen,” the woman replied warmly. “And this is Dilys.” She ruffled the dæmon’s shaggy fur. “Welcome to Camelot.” 

 

\---

 

“I thought you said we were going to Gaius,” Merlin complained, back aching under the weight of at least twenty gowns. “Why am I carrying your laundry up a staircase, again?” 

“It’s not _my_ laundry, Merlin,” Gwen replied, stepping lightly up the stairs. Dilys trotted loyally at her heels. “And you insisted on returning me the favor!” 

“You know I could never refuse a lady in need,” Merlin bantered, panting with every step. “But somehow...this deal...is getting...less...and less...appealing.” 

“One more word out of you, and I’ll leave you to the pickpocketers,” Gwen warned, smiling. Merlin gasped with relief as they entered (yet another) luxurious stone hallway. “Here we are!” Gwen knocked smartly on a chamber door. 

“Gwen?” called a cool voice from within. “Thank the gods, I need some help with this dress.” Aithusa cocked an ear at the sound of fabric rustling. “Oh, _cachu.”_

“I’m coming,” Gwen said mildly, swinging the oak door open. She motioned Merlin to follow. He tottered inside, barely glimpsing the magnificent lady’s chamber over the mountain of evening gowns in his arms. 

“And who is this?” the lady asked, voice curt. “Gwen, did you invite this boy into my chamber?” 

“This is Merlin, milady,” Gwen replied, carefully unloading his armful of dresses onto a side table. “He offered to help me carry your new gowns up to the room.” 

“Well, isn’t that sweet.” The cool voice floated from behind a richly brocaded screen. Merlin gaped at the luxuriously decorated room, stone walls draped with gorgeous fabrics too expensive to contemplate. “Do you think he’d be kind enough to help a girl with her dress?” 

From behind the changing curtain, a terrifying woman appeared, draped in shimmering green. Merlin stammered, struck by the woman’s icy gaze and her mane of rich black curls, pinned back by a glittering brooch in the shape of a dragonfly. 

“Morgana, don’t terrify the poor boy,” Gwen chided, pulling a deep purple gown from the pile. “Try this one. The seller told me it came straight from Phœnicia.” The woman’s gaze softened, turning to Gwen. She snatched the dress from her hands, inspecting it briefly, before whisking back behind the curtain. Merlin heard the faint whisper of fabric slithering to the floor. “Well, help me put this on, Gwen,” the lady called impatiently. Gwen smiled, motioning Merlin to wait. She and Dilys stepped behind the curtain to tend to their mistress, and Merlin was left scuffing his boots on a carpet worth considerably more than his entire village. 

As he and Aithusa gazed at the ceiling, the mirrors, the trellised windows -- anything but the flimsy curtain -- he heard a faint buzz, growing steadily louder. He glanced around the room for the source, but could see nothing. The buzzing abruptly stopped. 

“You’re a funny little thing,” a small voice hummed. Merlin jumped. The voice had come from somewhere right behind him. “What sort of creature are you?” 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Merlin returned, narrowing his eyes. The oak door was bare of secrets, but the side table held a small jewelry stand, draped with sparkling necklaces and a brooch that might have been the exact match of Morgana’s hair pin -- 

\--oh. Merlin bobbed his head in a small bow, uncertain of ceremony. “Your ladyship.” 

The damselfly dæmon chuckled, sharp as a tapped wineglass. “You may call me Lady Mair,” she hummed, “and you’ve met Morgana already.” She groomed her face daintily, jewel-bright eyes fixed on Merlin. “Are you our Gwen’s new plaything?”

“Mair!” Gwen called from behind the curtain. “Behave!” She poked her head out, cheeks flushed. “He’s just a friend, and he’s terribly new in town.” 

“So we can see,” Morgana replied, interrupting a stream of breathy curses. Apparently the new dress was _very_ tight. “If he wasn’t new, he’d have enough sense to stay far away from my chamber.” 

“It’s a very nice room,” Merlin said hesitantly, “and you both seem like very… lovely… ladies, so I can’t imagine why--” He cut off as Mair buzzed closer, hovering so near he almost went cross-eyed trying to focus. 

“So you haven’t heard,” Mair purred, her glass wings blurring into thin air. “Rumor has it, Morgana and I bite the heads off any man who strays too close to our chamber door.” 

“I think Arthur came up with that one,” Morgana continued. The damselfly zipped to her side as she stepped out again, clad this time in eye-popping purple. “In fact, I blame him entirely.” Gwen and Dilys came back into the main chamber, watching Morgana twirl before her full-length mirror. “It’s magnificent, Gwen,” she crooned. 

Gwen smiled in delight, and Dilys thumped her shaggy tail on the carpet. “It looks marvelous, milady. Don’t you think so, Merlin?” She gave him a pointed look.

“Absolutely. Fabulous. Stunning. Gwen, a word?” he replied, nodding his head desperately towards the door. 

“Right. Morgana, I’ve promised to show Merlin the way to Gaius’ chambers,” she said sheepishly, “I’ll be back in half a moment.”

“Do hurry, Gwen, we’ve all these dresses to choose from for tomorrow's festival,” Morgana replied, examining the gown’s intricate beadwork in the mirror. “Though I hardly see anything to celebrate about.” Her mouth set in a grim line, and Mair buzzed quietly in her ear. 

“At the very least, we’ll find you the dress to make every man in that hall wish he were yours,” Gwen replied, walking briskly to the door. Dilys reluctantly dragged her gaze away from the elegant pair and trotted after Gwen, shaggy ears drooping. 

 

\---

 

Merlin waited for the door to creak shut before exploding. “I offered to help carry a load of dresses, Gwen,” he hissed, following her quick footsteps down the hallway. “I don’t recall offering to give fashion advice to the _Princess of Camelot!”_ Aithusa bristled indignantly in his pocket. 

“She’s marvellous, isn’t she?” Dilys replied dreamily. Gwen shushed her, glancing back at Merlin. “Sorry to put you on the spot, Merlin. Morgana really is quite nice, once you get to know her.”

“Yes, if I don’t get eaten first!” Merlin dodged under the low stairwell entrance, racing to keep up with Gwen’s sure feet. “I thought her dæmon was going to bite my nose off.” Aithusa nipped his finger in reprimand. “Ow! What!” 

“Don’t be vulgar, Merlin,” Aithusa snipped, as Dilys barked a laugh. Gwen stifled a smile. “Really, Merlin, he’s right. Morgana would hardly like to hear you say such a horrid thing.” 

“She’s the one who threatened to eat me!” Merlin protested, raising his voice to be heard over the bustle of the lower corridor. Servants rushed to and from the kitchen, carrying platters of cheese, mountains of honeyed bread, and enormous pitchers of wine. Gusts of flour and hoarse curses billowed out of the warm kitchen entryway. Merlin followed Gwen’s careful weaving step through the crowd of humans and dæmons, all bustling to finish preparations for the night’s feast. Dilys rushed ahead, snuffling the air happily as they passed by a row of glowing ovens. Merlin paused, staring longingly at a tray of roast boar, before Gwen grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the way of an irate cook. 

“Get the _hurtynnod_ out of ‘ere, Gwenhwyfar!” roared the man, squirrel dæmon chattering from his apron pocket. “And keep ‘im away from the meat platter! ‘E’s droolin’ all over it!” 

“Sorry!” shouted Merlin and Gwen in chorus, ducking through the fray into a quiet back hallway. Merlin gasped for breath. “Gwen, is this really the only way to Gaius’s chambers?” 

“No,” Dilys replied merrily, “but it is the fastest way, and you _did_ look a little peckish…” Gwen triumphantly produced a small loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese from her pocket. She pushed it into Merlin’s hands as he babbled his thanks, mouth quickly stuffed with fresh food. “Don’t mention it, Merlin, really. You can’t see Gaius if you faint of hunger first!” She stopped in her tracks, and frowning, turned to him. “Hang on, are you sick?” She pressed a hand to Merlin’s forehead before he could swat it away. “Are you going to Gaius for a cure?”

“‘M no’ sick,” Merlin mumbled through a mouthful of bread, “m’mum sent me--” he swallowed-- “to be Gaius’s apprentice.” Mostly true. Well, sort of true. 

“Well, he could certainly use the help,” sighed Gwen, steering Merlin through the corridor to an unassuming wooden door. She knocked smartly, and waited, Dilys’s ears cocked. No answer.

“Sorry, Merlin,” Gwen said, resigned. “I really hate to leave you, but I’ve got to get back to Morgana. I’m sure he’ll be back soon?” Dilys wagged her tail in agreement. 

“No problem,” he replied, gazing hopelessly at the door. “Well...see ya?” He stuck his hand out for a shake. 

Gwen smiled, sweeping him into an unexpected hug. “Take care, Merlin,” she said softly, beaming at him. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” She squeezed his arm, then rushed back down the corridor as quickly as she’d come, dæmon loping at her heels. 

“Right,” Merlin said. He stared at the offending door, jiggling the handle a bit. Locked. Just his bloody luck. He glanced down the empty hallway, waiting for Gwen’s footsteps to echo away. The briefest flash of gold, and the old door reluctantly creaked open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations from Welsh:**  
>  _Rhufeiniaid_ \- Romans  
>  _Gwerin_ \- folk  
>  _Cachu_ \- shit  
>  _Hurtynnod_ \- fool, idiot
> 
>  **List of dæmon species:**  
>  **Merlin** \- Aithusa (unsettled, male)  
>  **Gwen** \- Dilys (Old English sheepdog, female)  
>  **Morgana** \- Mair (Beautiful Demoiselle damselfly, female) 
> 
> **Notes on the text:**  
>  This fic begins in the _His Dark Materials_ universe, at around the turn of the 6th century -- the hypothesized era of our own world's (mostly fictional) King Arthur. I've attempted to balance the delightful historical revisionism of _Merlin_ with a dose of real-world historical context. In this fic, the Roman conquest of Brytain (or Albion) is in its final decline, and Anglo-Saxon tribes battle for control in the North. The Pendragons are Celts, but Uther has adopted many Roman ideals of order and government -- especially their efforts to eliminate the Old Religion and destroy native magic users. The lingua franca of Camelot and its surrounding lands at this time is Welsh, an amalgam of Common Brittonic and Latin. (I do not speak Welsh, and I have done my best with the translations -- please feel free to point out any errors you may find.) 
> 
> As noted in HDM, dæmons are the physical manifestation of a human's soul; they can take the form of any non-sentient animal. For the purposes of this fic, which takes place in a world where most humans will never travel far from their birthplace, I have limited the dæmon species to those animals native to the British isles. Dæmons typically settle when humans reach puberty; same-sex dæmons are already rare, and Aithusa's unsettled form marks Merlin as highly unusual. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism! I'll be uploading a new chapter once a week for the foreseeable future, so stay tuned for more.


	2. Accidents Happen

“I can explain,” began Merlin, as the old man stormed towards him. His face looked like curdled milk. Merlin stepped back, searching blindly for the door handle; his gaze was transfixed by the man’s strange and frightening eyebrows. His small bat dæmon chattered excitedly, clambering over the old man’s mane of white hair. 

The bookshelf stayed where it was. 

“I know how this looks,” Merlin said hesitantly, risking a glance at the copy of _De Materia Medica_ hovering inches above the man’s bristling head. The old man paused, head slowly tilting up to follow Merlin’s gaze. Fingers trembling, he plucked the book out of the air, smoothing its pages tenderly. 

He looked up at Merlin. “You did this?” he croaked, closing the book shut. His eyes were wide and piercing. Merlin nodded, dazed. 

“Well.” The old man stared hard at Merlin. “We’d best put these books back in order.” He turned to the offending bookcase, halted mid-topple. The dusty texts hung in the air like a flock of frozen pigeons, covers and pages spread wide. The ladder from which the man had toppled floated lazily in the air. 

“Come on, boy!” he bellowed, bracing himself against the half-felled bookshelf. Merlin startled, snapping out of his daze. He breathed slowly, feeling the magic flush his body once more, and his blue eyes flooded with gold. 

The old man sprung back as the heavy bookcase righted itself, spilled books pouring back into its shelves. The ladder tucked itself away neatly against the wall. He turned, once more, to Merlin, mouth falling open.

“Who are you?” he managed, crooked fingers unconsciously forming the sign of the horns. “What is your business here?” He brandished the accusing hand at Merlin. 

“I’m nobody,” Merlin croaked, raising his arms in surrender. “I’m just a peasant. I’m nobody.” His forehead clammy, visions of Thomas Collins racing through his mind, Merlin took another step backwards. “I’m in the wrong place, that’s all.” 

The old man lowered his hand, face softening. “A power like yours does not come from _nobody,”_ he said, almost gently. “But it certainly has no place here in Camelot. If anyone had seen you--” His expression darkened. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Merlin stuttered, lowering his arms slowly. “I saw the bookshelf start to fall when you lost your balance. And then it just…happened.” He waved a hand vaguely at the bookshelf, now neatly stacked and (Merlin winced) possibly alphabetized. 

One eyebrow stretched higher than Merlin had previously thought possible. “What do you mean, it just _happened?”_ The old man gestured wildly at the bookcase. “What spell did you use, boy? Where did you learn to control such powerful magic?” 

“I don’t control it,” Merlin replied, tensing. “I can’t. I came here to learn how.” The man’s face twisted, gripped with some powerful emotion Merlin couldn’t place. “You came to _Camelot_ to learn how to use _magic?”_ he said in disbelief. “You are either much braver or much stupider than you look.” He stepped closer, bat dæmon peering intently into Merlin’s eyes. 

“It was getting hard to hide from the rest of the village,” Merlin responded tersely. “Mum couldn’t buy a loaf of _bread_ without someone muttering a curse at her. Word was getting around that her son was….” he trailed off, then continued. “The crops were bad this year. People were looking for someone to blame. I couldn’t let Mum suffer because of me, and I couldn’t make her leave her home. So we left instead.” He tightened his jaw, staring defiantly at the old man. 

“And you came to Camelot,” the man replied, shaking his head. “Why on earth would you come _here,_ of all places?” 

“I thought it couldn’t be any worse than Ealdor,” Merlin said, stung. “Mum wanted me to stay in the village where it was safe, but home wasn’t safe anymore. And she and Caron were always talking about an old friend who lived in Camelot…” 

The old man’s eyes widened, mouth dropping open. His dæmon sprung up, fluttering in dizzying circles. “Did you say _Caron?”_ squeaked bat and man in unison. 

Merlin nodded. “Are you Gaius?” he replied hopefully. “Do you remember my mother?” 

Gaius swept a hand through his white hair, looking dazed. “You’re Hunith’s boy!” he cried, peering deeply into Merlin’s face. “Now I remember. She sent me a letter about you, oh, it must have been just after you were born,” he muttered, “wanted me to come visit -- sounded urgent -- but a sickness had broken out in Camelot and I was needed here…” He glanced at Merlin’s traveling bag. “Well, you’d better sit down, young one, and tell me about your journey.”

“It’s Merlin,” he replied, sagging with relief as Gaius led him to the table. “And this is Aithusa.” He patted his dæmon’s pocket, feeling at home for the first time in what felt like years. 

 

\---

 

“Well, we _have_ thought of taking on an apprentice,” Maddox offered, as Gaius busied himself with a steaming pot of...something. Aithusa crept closer to the bat, skittering across the scarred wooden table, and the dæmons politely sniffed noses. The bat glanced once more at his human, then continued. “However...it seems you two may be searching for something greater -- and perhaps more _dangerous_ \-- than a tuition in the medical arts.” Aithusa pricked his velvety ears. 

“We need a teacher,” Merlin admitted. “This power….we don’t know where it comes from. But we know it’s dangerous. And you’re the only person we knew to ask for help.” 

Maddox’s soft fur bristled, and Gaius glanced at Merlin. “We have not practiced our powers since the Purge, Merlin,” he said sternly, voice barely more than a whisper. “Such arts are illegal in Camelot, and punished with the utmost severity. The King is unflinching in his execution of the law, and the Church relishes the opportunity to exterminate followers of the Old Religion.” Gaius paused to ladle a spoonful of….something….into a wooden bowl. He eyed Merlin, considering. 

Gaius flung the bowl of stew at Merlin. 

“Hey!” Merlin yelped, eyes flashing. The bowl hurtled through the air, stew slopping in a wide arc, and — froze. “What was that for!” 

Maddox growled, and Gaius closed his eyes wearily. “You must learn to control this power of yours if you are to remain in Camelot, Merlin,” he sighed. The bowl floated gently to rest by Merlin’s elbow. “Such acts could easily get you killed!” He sat down heavily at the table, massaging his brow. His dæmon fluttered to rest on his shoulder. 

“That’s exactly why we need a teacher,” Merlin replied, determined. “I need to learn how to manage my powers, or my magic will us in serious trouble. It already has.” He winced. “We won’t be a burden. I can help you with your duties, and you can teach me how to control my magic. Please, Gaius?” 

The older man sighed good-humouredly, patting Merlin’s hand. “Of course you can stay, my boy. You can sleep in the spare room — I’ll make up a bed for you. I could hardly turn any son of Hunith from my doorstep. I owe your mother a great deal, and I see you take after her.” He pushed up slowly from the table, wrapping a small bottle in a soft cloth and passing it to Merlin. “Now, make yourself useful. The Prince was injured in his last bout, and he must apply this healing poultice if the wound is to heal without a scar. Ask one of the guards for directions to his chambers.” He waved Merlin away dismissively, a hint of a sparkle in his eye.

Merlin grinned ear to ear, snatching Aithusa from the table and bounding out the door. “You won’t regret this, Gaius!” The old man sighed, exchanging a glance with his dæmon. “I hope not, my dear boy,” he sighed. “I certainly hope not.”

 

\---

 

Merlin rushed down the wide hallway, following the bemused guard’s pointing finger. “Thank you!” he bellowed over his shoulder, stretching his legs into a sprint. Giddiness rushed through him, filling his lungs and limbs with frantic energy. “Slow down, Merlin!” Aithusa chittered, but he could hear the smile in his dæmon’s voice. They had made it to Camelot! They had found a magic teacher! Merlin beamed crazily at every servant and guard he passed, attracting a few answering smiles and more than a few curious looks. He cradled the cloth-wrapped poultice carefully in his pocket, mounting the stairs two at a time. 

And now he was about to meet _Prince Arthur,_ son of Uther Pendragon and perhaps the greatest warrior in Albion -- according to the bards that occasionally wandered through Ealdor, anyway. Arthur’s fair beauty, his mother’s tragic death, and his skill in single combat were already common knowledge, his deeds sung from Curnow to Mercia — though the Prince was barely older than Merlin himself. 

Merlin was busy thinking about Arthur’s legendary muscles when the wind was knocked out of him. 

He blinked at the other boy, who now sprawled attractively across the floor, his mouth open in shock. (Merlin stared at the boy’s parted lips for a perhaps-inappropriate amount of time.) Merlin rubbed his bruised arm, stunned by the collision. “Um.” He stuck a hand out. 

The boy looked at his hand as though it was a particularly disgusting insect, then pushed himself heavily to his feet. “Do you know what it is you’ve just done?” he asked in disbelief, pretty mouth twisting unpleasantly. His eyes were very blue. _Focus, idiot!_ “You’ll pay for this, you know.” 

“What I’ve done?” Merlin responded, belatedly lowering his proffered hand. “You ran into _me,_ you prat!” He nursed his bruised shoulder, glaring at the beautiful blond boy with the alarmingly long eyelashes. _Oh, hell._

The boy — a young man, really, Merlin noted, his body almost rid of the adolescent lankiness Merlin couldn’t seem to shake — glowered at him, momentarily speechless. A blissful moment. Interrupted by a menacing growl. 

Merlin turned, very, very slowly, suddenly unsure which he was more terrified of: the young, enraged nobleman with the _very_ large sword now that you mention it _(oh gods you truly are a spectacular idiot Merlin),_ or the snarling lynx ready to pounce on Merlin’s jugular. 

“This _prat,”_ the dæmon purred, “will throw you in the stocks, if you don’t mind your tongue.” Her stubby tail lashed with excitement. “Or perhaps you’d prefer a night in the dungeons? Though I’m afraid the guards may not take kindly to a simpleton who insults the royal family.” 

“I didn’t insult the royal family,” Merlin babbled, because when has he ever known what’s good for him; “I insulted a royal _ass_ who can’t even watch where he’s going!” He inched backwards down the corridor, and froze as the point of a sword met his back. 

“You truly are an idiot, aren’t you,” hissed the boy into his ear. “Perhaps we’d better teach you a lesson in manners.” 

“Arthur!” A voice rang out. “Unhand that poor boy.” Merlin sighed with relief as the sword fell, and turned to find the raging figure of Lady Morgana. She stalked down the hallway like a vengeful goddess, Mair buzzing wrathfully by her side. Merlin, feeling faint, leaned against a wall for support as Morgana’s words finally penetrated. “Did we just call the Crown Prince of Camelot a prat?” he muttered to Aithusa, as Morgana launched into a thorough tongue-lashing (“threatening a simple-minded servant, Arthur, _really,_ this is beneath even you—”), and Aithusa bristled. _“You_ just called him a prat, Merlin, yes, though I fail to see what _I_ had to do with it—” 

_“And_ a royal ass,” added the lynx, sitting back on her haunches and watching the tableau unfold, amusement glinting in her amber eyes. “Mustn’t forget that one!” She licked a paw and groomed one fluffy ear. “Apparently Morgana’s taken to adopting strays, though, lucky you. They’ll be at it for hours.” She glanced at Merlin curiously. “You really didn’t know he’s the Prince, did you? Are you blind as well as stupid?” 

“We’re from out of town,” Aithusa replied grouchily. “And he didn’t exactly impart a _royal presence,_ did he, barging about like he owns the place—” 

“He does, idiot,” she replied, eyeing Aithusa like a particularly tasty snack. “He’s the Prince. Someday he’ll be _King._ Don’t you know _anything?”_ She grinned a sharp-toothed grin, glancing back at Arthur, who was glowing steadily redder under Morgana’s barrage. (“He defiled my person!” “You wouldn’t know defilement if it climbed up your royal behind—” “Oh, and of course you would know all about _defilement,_ Morgana—”) 

“This is much more fun than a banquet, I’ll admit,” she purred. “We’ve been starved for entertainment lately; Uther won’t let us back on the field until Arthur’s leg heals. He’s been climbing up the walls. I’ve been ready to pounce on something myself,” she admitted, tail twitching. 

“Oh! Gaius sent me with something for his wound,” Merlin said, startled. “Can you give this to him?” He reached into his pocket, removing the poultice and setting it on the floor at a respectful distance. The lynx padded forward, sniffing the cloth and wrinkling her nose. “Gods, what does he put in these things?” she asked in disgust. “Sometimes I think the man is trying to poison us.” She sneezed, pawing at her nose. _She’s just an overgrown kitten, really,_ Merlin thought, trying to calm himself. He glanced at Arthur, who seemed to have forgotten Merlin entirely. He waved his hands wildly at a screaming Morgana, yelling something about her lineage that was answered with a ringing slap. 

“They’re always like this,” buzzed Mair, making Merlin jump. “Hello, Hadriana.” The damselfly buzzed closer, landing delicately on the lynx’s oversized ear. She twitched, batting a paw at the other dæmon and hissing. The damselfly hovered just out of range, unperturbed. “I eagerly await the day Morgana finally hires a discreet assassin. It’s no wonder she can’t sleep, with all this bickering.” 

The lynx’s ears flattened. “You’d better get out of here while you have the chance,” she growled to Merlin, glaring at the smug damselfly. “That goes for you too, you — you glorified stick insect.” Merlin backed away, taking a final look at the bellowing Prince, the raging Morgana, and the crouching wildcat preparing to pounce. “Thank you,” he called, unsure who exactly he was thanking. Receiving no reply, Merlin turned tail and ran, thanking all the gods that Camelot’s insanity seemed to have turned against itself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **List of dæmon species:**  
>  **Merlin** \- Aithusa (unsettled, male)  
>  **Gwen** \- Dilys (Old English sheepdog, female)  
>  **Morgana** \- Mair (Beautiful Demoiselle damselfly, female)  
>  **Gaius** \- Maddox (Natterer’s bat, male)  
>  **Arthur** \- Hadriana (Eurasian lynx, female)
> 
> **Notes on the text:**  
>  ** _[De Materia Medica](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_Materia_Medica)_** \- A widely-distributed text on herbal medicine written in the 1st century.  
>  **["Sign of the horns"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sign_of_the_horns)** \- An ancient gesture invoking the Horned God. Believed to ward off evil.  
>  **Curnow** \- Southwest Brytain, present-day Cornwall.  
>  **Mercia** \- Anglo-Saxon kingdom in the East Midlands.
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism! I'll be uploading a new chapter once a week for the foreseeable future, so stay tuned for more.


	3. Obscurum Per Obscurius

“Your stupidity truly knows no bounds, Merlin,” Gaius chastised, grinding a mortar and pestle with more force than strictly necessary. Merlin sighed, dropping his head in his hands. “I _know,_ Gaius, believe me, I know. I’m sorry. It just—” Gaius set the stone mortar down with a thump, turning gravely to Merlin. “Let me guess. It just _happened,_ didn’t it.” He sighed heavily. He picked up a bottle and uncorked it, coughing at the fumes as he added it to the mixture. “Lad, has anyone ever told you that things seem to ’just happen’ at a truly _alarming_ frequency when you’re nearby?” 

“That’s…more or less what Mum said, yeah,” Merlin replied morosely. “I really am sorry, Gaius. I had no idea who I was talking to, and I never would have said those things had I known.” He stroked Aithusa’s black fur. “Although he really _is_ a prat, for a Prince,” he muttered. 

Gaius fought back a smile. “Arthur is a courageous and honorable young man,” he responded with a cough. “But he certainly has some…growing left to do.” Maddox chuckled, leaning conspiratorially in to Aithusa. “In terms of manners, that is,” he whispered. “His ego couldn’t grow any further without causing _serious_ damage.” The two dæmons chittered together. 

Gaius gave Maddox a chiding look. “Be that as it may,” he continued, “you would do well to apologize to him, Merlin, as he could make your time in Camelot considerably more difficult.” Merlin groaned. “It just doesn’t seem fair, Gaius. Why should I have to apologize for something he did?” 

A pinch of some pungent herb resulted in a plume of white smoke, and the physician set the mixture down, coughing. “Such is the life of a servant,” he replied weakly, waving away the fumes. “Perhaps you forget that our duties here are to the royal family, Merlin, in exchange for their protection. You may be here on your own business, but as far as Arthur and his father are concerned, your life justly belongs to them as long as you reside within these walls.” 

“And what of the Lady Morgana?” he persisted, frowning. “She doesn’t seem to agree with that idea.” He winced, the sound of Morgana’s slap ringing in his ears. Gaius smiled fondly. “Yes, well, Morgana is a different story. You know she is the King’s ward, not related to Arthur by blood?” He tipped the steaming poultice carefully into a bottle. “She has never seen eye to eye with Uther, not since she was a child.” 

“She and Arthur don’t seem to get on, either,” Merlin said. “What brought Morgana to Camelot, anyway?” 

Gaius exchanged a glance with his dæmon. “A tragic story,” he said, turning away from Merlin. “Sir Gorlois, the King’s bosom companion, was once married to the Lady Vivienne, a legendary beauty. The Lady Morgana was born to the two of them in these halls; I attended to her birth myself.” He paused, eyes focused on another time. “Gorlois was sent to aid Uther’s ally Ceredig in his defense against the Anglians. He perished in the Northern Plains, it is said, and the Lady Vivienne soon died of grief.” Gaius coughed loudly, though Aithusa could have sworn he heard Maddox mutter, “or guilt.” 

“Out of duty to his fallen friend, King Uther took in the orphan Morgana as his ward. He has loved her as a daughter ever since.” Gaius’s stern look informed Merlin that the subject was closed. “Now, if you are finished peppering me with questions, I have some chores for you to finish before you sleep. We both have a big day tomorrow, Merlin, and I want you well rested for the feast.”

“Yes, Gaius,” chorused Merlin and Aithusa, staring glumly at the mop and bucket. They could have cleaned the chambers in an instant, but there was more than half a chance they’d blow out the windows instead, and Merlin didn’t feel like risking his luck yet again. 

 

\---

 

_Merlin…_

“Wha’ izzit, Aithusa,” Merlin mumbled, pulling a lumpy pillow over his head. “‘S still dark out.” He opened one eye to see Aithusa staring curiously at him, his beady eyes and black fur nearly invisible in the darkness. “I hear it too,” he muttered, ears twitching. 

_Merlin..._

“Gaius?” Merlin called softly. “Maddox?” No answer. The moon hung low outside his small window, and the castle slept on, in utter silence. Except for the low voice, rumbling through Merlin’s bones and whispering behind his eyes. 

_Merlin!_

“Alright, alright, we’re coming,” Merlin grumbled, fumbling for a boot and pulling it on. “Wrong foot,” Aithusa piped, shifting into a cat with wide lampen eyes. “Get a move on. It seems to be coming from the hall.” He pattered into the main chamber, creeping quietly past Gaius’s snoring bedframe.

Merlin felt a tug against their connection as Aithusa paced impatiently by the door. He winced, pulling his other boot on and tiptoeing out to meet his dæmon. The door creaked slowly shut as they shuffled down the hall, alert for any guards. 

Merlin yawned, scrubbing his face sleepily. “Hear anything?” he whispered to Aithusa, who cocked an ear. “No,” the cat muttered. “Maybe it fell asleep.” He trotted further down the hall, ears swiveling. 

“Perhaps we dreamt it,” Merlin replied hopefully. “Come on, ‘Thusa, let’s go back to bed. We can investigate in the morning, yeah?”

“I know what I heard,” Aithusa responded, sulky. “It wasn’t a dream. It was like someone was thinking very loudly at us.” Merlin shivered.

 _Merlin._ There it was again. His skin prickled, sensing a well of great power. Whatever it was, it was drawing them into its grasp. “Aithusa!” he whispered, watching helplessly as his dæmon barreled down a short staircase. He groaned and jogged along the hallway to keep up. The separation yanked uncomfortably at his bowels, drawing him down towards whatever awaited them. 

The bottom of the stairwell revealed a small doorframe, which Aithusa pawed at ineffectually. “Do you mind?” he asked, shooting Merlin an irritated glance. “After you,” Merlin sighed, cracking the door open and letting the little cat slip out. He watched Aithusa race silently across the square, pausing only briefly to wait for his slow human. 

Merlin shuddered, averting his eyes from the cold shadow of the execution block. The palace square was almost silvery in the low moonlight, silent as a tomb. A lone night watchman huddled miserably on the parapet, counting down the long gloomy hours until sunrise. 

Merlin! the voice called, and the boy could swear it sounded almost annoyed. “We’re coming,” he hissed under his breath, “hold your horses.” He watched Aithusa duck behind a cart and through a dark entryway, straining at the edge of their connection. Aithusa always liked to experiment, testing how far they could pull apart, and Merlin had never begrudged him the freedom until now. “Slow down, ‘Thusa,” he panted, jogging into the dark tunnel. The cat seemed guided by an invisible string, tugging them both towards the voice’s source. 

Left, right, right, and locked door. Aithusa looked up at Merlin pleadingly. “We’re close,” he breathed, “I can feel it.” Merlin sighed, reaching out with his mind. He fumbled for a few moments, but at last the lock sprung open. 

He could feel the magic in his body tremble, vibrating in sympathy with whatever lay behind the door. Aithusa weaved between his legs, purring excitedly. Merlin took a breath. 

The door slid open, well-oiled, and revealed a steep staircase and a faint torchlight emanating from below. Two faint voices could be heard, exchanging barbs and quiet laughter. Guards. Merlin shared a worried glance with Aithusa, but the cat trotted down the stair before he could protest. 

The guards -- one man, one woman -- were keeping themselves awake with a game of dice. They sat on rude wooden boxes, tossing good-natured insults and handfuls of carved ivory back and forth. Merlin’s ears pricked, recognizing a Celtic dialect similar to his own. 

_“Ydych chi'n meddwl y byddwn ni'n cael y noson i ffwrdd ar gyfer y wledd?”_ the woman muttered, shaking a pair of dice and casting them on the ground. “Ha! _Rydych yn ddyledus i mi deuddeg.”_ The man growled, stooping to examine the roll. _"Rydych chi'n twyllo,”_ he spat, “cheating as always, Aderyn.” His dæmon, a reddish weasel, play-growled at the woman’s hedgehog. The guard snatched the dice from the ground and shook them roughly, tossing them to the ground. They bounced on the cold cobblestone, tottering down the corridor and away from a large wrought-iron door. Merlin, eyes golden, held his breath. 

_“Melltithio,”_ the guard swore, “your dice are shit.” He glared at the woman accusingly. “Well? Go get them.” The woman stared at the other guard, unimpressed. “Why don’t you, _dwpsen?_ You threw the damn things.” 

“You know I can’t see a thing in this light,” he huffed, “so why don’t you come help me.” The woman groaned and started off down the corridor, dæmon snuffling the ground. Merlin waited for their footsteps to echo away before darting to the iron door. Aithusa sniffed it and hissed, pawing his nose. _Cold iron,_ Merlin thought. _Can’t use magic on that. Shit, shit, shit._

He jiggled the handle desperately, and to his utter surprise, the door swung open without a sound. Merlin hesitated. The guards’ footsteps echoed closer. A deep breath, and Merlin plunged into the darkness, dæmon close at his heels. 

 

\---

 

Merlin stumbled down the iron stair, fumbling against the wall for guidance. He could just barely make out Aithusa’s silhouette, loping down the path with hardly a glance backwards. The darkness was absolute. Merlin shuddered as the cool stone wall became rough granite beneath his palms, tingling with untapped power. The stair evened out into a rude stone path. Finally, boy and dæmon turned a corner, shocked by a sharp wind, footsteps echoing through the expanse of an enormous cavern. 

Merlin blinked, eyes straining to adjust to the utter darkness. His palms itched. He raised one hand, studying the faint golden particles that slowly twined around his fingers. Glancing down, he saw Aithusa shrouded in the same flow of light. The dæmon twitched his whiskers curiously. The light began to swirl, forming eddies of golden dust in the air; it slowly crept over the rocky ledge upon which they stood. An island in a lightless sea. 

“I’m here!” Merlin bellowed, raising one shining hand. “Where are you?” He heard nothing but the faint _plink_ of water, dripping from a cold stalactite. “Why did you call me?” he called, desperate. Aithusa’s ears swiveled, alert to every sound. 

His shoulders slumped. _Maybe we’ve finally cracked,_ he thought morosely. _Will always said we’d end up the village idiots._ He lowered his hand. 

Aithusa howled, a wild animal cry that raised the hairs on Merlin’s neck. The eerie sound echoed through the ancient cavern, fading slowly into silence. 

It was answered, at last, by wingbeats. 

 

\---

 

 _That’s a dragon,_ Merlin thought, for the twelfth time. _That’s a dragon. That’s a dragon. That’s a fucking dragon--_

“You’re a dragon!” he blurted out, and Aithusa looked ready to _die._ The beast chuckled, each sound reverberating through Merlin’s bones like a drumbeat. “Quite so, young warlock,” he grumbled, leaning his vast head closer. His golden eyes, glinting in the light from Merlin’s palms, fixed on the boy and his dæmon, gazing with what Merlin fervently hoped was not hunger. 

The dragon peered at Aithusa, enormous nostrils snuffling the air. The fur on Aithusa’s neck bristled, but he met the beast’s gaze without fear. “How small you are,” the dragon rumbled, blinking slowly, “for such a great destiny.” He lazily stretched his wings, as though to emphasize the vast difference in their size. 

Aithusa bared his teeth, silvery cat-fur rippling. The dæmon’s small form expanded, shifting into a fox, a wolf, a bear, his snarling fangs glinting in the light. “Not so small,” he growled. Merlin laid a placating hand on the bear’s back. 

“Why did you call us?” he asked, stroking Aithusa’s fur for reassurance. The dragon reared his head back, settling himself on the cavern’s rocky outcrop. “It was not I who called you,” he replied. Merlin swore he could see a smirk on that reptilian face. “It was your own magic, resonating with mine. It was the very force that drew you to Camelot. It was your _destiny_ that brought you here, young warlock.” 

“What destiny?” Merlin yelled, the light from his hands flaring brighter. “What are you talking about?” Aithusa snorted in agreement, hackles rising. 

The dragon huffed, beating his wings. “Your gift, Merlin, was given to you for a reason,” he growled, “and it is my duty to see that gift redeemed.” Merlin groaned internally. _He’s worse than Gaius._

“You mean my magic?” he shouted, answered by a sardonic glint in the dragon’s eye. “What else, boy?” he grumbled, impatient. “You have been gifted with power beyond compare, so that you might save your people, and unite the land of Albion.” 

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Merlin cried, feeling a headache blooming behind his eyes. “I’m just a peasant! I’ve been in Camelot for _one day!_ I don’t even know how to use my powers!” Aithusa shifted his shaggy muscles, tensing.

“You will learn,” the beast replied, an _or else_ hovering threateningly in the air. “You must. In order to unite the land, you shall unite with the Once and Future King. You must protect him from friend and foe alike. You must harness your power to assure your shared destiny, or there will be no Albion left to protect.” 

“And who is that supposed to be?” Merlin groaned. “The Once and Future King? Could you speak in plain Celtic for once, please, and not in circles?” 

The dragon snorted in amusement, steam rising from his nostrils. “I believe you’ve already met,” he growled. “Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, Purge-Bringer and Oath-Breaker, is the Once and Future King who will unite the land of Albion. It is your destiny to protect him, young warlock.” 

Merlin laughed weakly. “Arthur. Right. The man can’t even tie his shoes properly, and I’m supposed to help him unite the kingdoms?” He gripped Aithusa’s fur for support. “Are you sure you’re not thinking of somebody else? Because I think you’ve got both of us all wrong.”

“There is no right or wrong, only what is and what isn't,” chided the dragon. “You have been chosen, and you must heed the call. None of us can escape our destiny, little one.” He leaned in closer, eyes blazing with hidden fire. “I can sense greatness in you,” he breathed, soaking in their golden light. “Both of you. There is a power yet to be revealed.” 

He recoiled abruptly, beating his vast wings in a hurricane of wind. Merlin and Aithusa reeled back from the ledge, stung by dust and grit and the grinding vibrations of stone. “Trust in your destiny, Merlin,” the dragon called, launching from the cliff and into the cavernous darkness. 

Merlin shuddered in the sudden gust of wind, shielding his face. Heavy wingbeats faded into the _plink_ of cold water. The light from their bodies flickered, glimmered weakly, and finally guttered out, leaving boy and bear at last alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes on the text:**  
>  _Obscurum Per Obscurius_ \- (explaining) the obscure by means of the more obscure.  
>  _Ceredig_ \- Ceredig ap Gwallog, King of Elmet, a sub-Roman Brittonic realm invaded by Anglo-Saxons.
> 
>  **Translations from Welsh:**  
>  _Ydych chi'n meddwl y byddwn ni'n cael y noson i ffwrdd ar gyfer y wledd?_ \- Do you think we'll get the night off for the feast?  
>  _Rydych yn ddyledus i mi deuddeg_ \- You owe me twelve.  
>  _Rydych chi'n twyllo_ \- You're cheating.  
>  _melltithio_ \- damn  
>  _dwpsen_ \- fool


	4. Just Reward

Merlin hid a yawn, shuffling down the corridor and wincing at every glimpse of the sun. Aithusa slouched morosely in his pocket. “Rough night?” called out a familiar voice, and Merlin did an about-face.

“Gwen!” he cried, delighted, and immediately smothered another yawn. “A bit rough, yeah.” Dilys padded over to sniff noses with Aithusa, tongue lolling happily. 

“Hope Gaius hasn’t been working you too hard,” she laughed, ruffling Dilys’ fur. “Heard about your apprenticeship, congratulations!” 

Merlin raised his eyebrows. “Word travels fast here, I guess,” he replied, running a sleepy hand through his hair and wincing at what _else_ might have made it to the eager ears of the castle’s gossips. “Oh, and we did hear about your fight with Arthur,” Gwen continued, as if reading his mind. “He really isn’t pleased with you, Merlin, if half of what I hear is true.” She gave him a worried look. “It’s a good thing Morgana took a liking to you.”

“Is that what she did?” Merlin mumbled. “And here I thought she’d been getting ready to take a bite out of me.” Dilys chuckled, tail thumping the floor. “She only takes a bite out of the ones she _really_ likes, Merlin,” she smirked, earning a swat from Gwen. “And Morgana can at least give you a bit of protection,” Gwen continued, “which you’ll need if you keep falling afoul of the Prince.” She winced a bit. “Any chance you’re heading to his chambers with a peace offering?”

“No such luck,” Merlin sighed. “Out collecting herbs for Gaius, and then it’s deliveries all day, plus an hour before dinner to teach me some festival etiquette.” Gwen gasped happily. “Oh, will you be at the feast tonight?” she said, eyes sparkling. “Merlin, it’ll be so wonderful, you have no idea. You’ll get to see the King, and all the knights, and the servants usually get whatever’s left over, the food is always _magical--”_

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ll see you there!” he said abruptly. “Well, I’ve gotta run, lots of herbs to fetch--” 

Dilys gave him a keen look from beneath her shaggy brows. “Do you know where the woods are, Merlin?” she huffed, glancing at the list clutched tightly in his palm. “Or what sorrel even _looks_ like?” 

“What sort of King would I be, if I did not familiarize myself with the medicinal plants of my fiefdoms?” Merlin replied, sketching a bow. Gwen laughed delightedly. “Honestly, Gwen, I _did_ grow up in rural Essetir,” he continued. “I’m offended you think so little of my woodsmanship.” She smiled, taking him by the shoulders and pointing him at the nearest door. 

“Well, Sir Woodsman,” she replied, “go straight down the main road, turn right at the gates, and head down the path; you’ll find most of the herbs you need in the woods there."

“Thanks, Gwen!” he shouted over a shoulder, already jogging out the door. “I owe you one!” She sighed, scratching Dilys’s shaggy head. “Think he’ll get lost?” she muttered under her breath. “Oh, within five minutes,” the dog dæmon replied, scratching an ear. “No question. Good job those two have such a vast supply of beginner’s luck.” 

 

\---

 

Merlin was scraped, scratched, muddied, bloodied and bruised by the time he dragged himself through Gaius’s door, tossing a handful of precious herbs on the table and collapsing in a heap on the nearest chair. “Goodness, Merlin,” the physician chided, inspecting the herbs carefully for damage. “Did you feel it necessary to drag these through every bog in sight?” 

“I thought that’s where they got their medicinal properties,” wheezed Merlin, running a hand through his hair. It stayed in place, Gaius noted, giving his ward the appearance of a bedraggled hedgehog. He sighed, placing the herbs carefully in his cabinet before plunking a basin of steaming water on the table. “Best wash yourself up, boy,” he called, rummaging again through his cabinets. “You’ve several deliveries to make, and you must be presentable if you’re to serve at the feast tonight.” 

“Thanks, Gaius,” Merlin said gratefully, reaching for the hot water. “You’re a lifesaver.” Aithusa leapt out of his pocket, snuffling the steam and shuddering the last of the muddy water off his fur. Maddox swept off Gaius’s shoulder, landing on the lid of the basin. “And what do you think you’re doing?” he asked, raising a tiny eyebrow.

“Bathing?” Merlin replied, hesitantly.

“Oh no, my dear boy,” Gaius said, turning from the cabinet, a bundle of herbs and -- was that a jar of newts? -- clutched carefully in his arms. “This is for the draught I’m preparing! You’ll find a bucket by the well outside.” 

Merlin slunk morosely out the door, feeling as though the day couldn’t get any worse.

 

\---

 

“You utter, complete, blithering, stupid, useless, _mongrel,”_ Arthur panted, punctuating every word with a swing. His mace glittered brightly in the weak sunlight. “How _dare_ you approach me, I should have you _hanged--”_

“Well,” Merlin said, stepping carefully away from the enraged Prince, “I’m sure that would be _great_ fun, my liege, but I have several more deliveries to complete -- are you free, say--” Merlin dodged another swing-- “after lunch? I’m sure I could clear up my schedule for a good hanging, it sounds--” another dodge, and that one was a bit close-- "really _rousing--”_

“Shut up!” Arthur roared, silencing the tittering of the knights behind him. “Do you _ever stop talking?”_ The Prince of Camelot kicked aside an offending armoury box. He turned his blazing eyes on Merlin, before glancing at his dæmon. 

“What do you say, Hadriana, shall we have some fun with him?” Arthur swung the mace in lazy circles. Merlin tiptoed backwards as stealthily as possible, immediately bumping into a table. A lamp clattered loudly onto the ground. He winced, but Arthur seemed to think him easy enough prey to stay put while he argued with his dæmon. 

“I don’t know, Arthur, I rather like him,” the lynx purred, lashing her stubby tail. “He’s funny.” Arthur sputtered, glancing between his dæmon and Merlin. “You _like_ him?” he coughed, furious. _“Him?_ I can’t believe you!” 

“Well, you must like him too, stupid,” Hadriana replied demurely. Merlin reddened. The vein in Arthur’s forehead swelled, and his left eye began to twitch. The knights began to cautiously step backwards, demonstrating the sort of keen survival instincts that would serve them well on the battlefield. 

Merlin made eye contact with the amused wildcat, just as Arthur’s predatory gaze swung back towards him. He placed the poultice carefully on the grass, nodded politely, and exited with the appropriate degree of courtly grace and decorum. That is to say, he bolted. 

 

\--

 

“Now remember, Merlin,” Gaius muttered, tugging the boy’s jacket straight on his lanky shoulders. “Remain silent, speak only when spoken to, be _respectful,_ and by all the gods, stay _far away_ from Arthur.” Maddox chirped in agreement, fluttering from the rafters to perch on Gaius’s head. “And don’t do anything stupid!” the bat dæmon added. 

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Merlin said, resignedly. “I’ve had more than enough excitement for one day, trust me.” Gaius sighed, brushing dirt off Merlin’s lapel. “Yes, well, hopefully the Prince has gotten it out of his system now,” he replied, none too optimistically. Trumpets sounded in the square, and Gaius jolted into action, bustling out the door. “The feast will be starting any minute. Hurry up!” Merlin rushed after him, Aithusa clinging onto his shoulder for dear life. 

The feast room was magnificent, loaded with more food than Merlin had ever seen in one place. There were steaming platters of meat, exotic fruits and vegetables, and a whole roast boar making up the centerpiece, simmering in a mountain of savoury baked apples. Merlin’s mouth immediately began watering. Gwen stood by the front table, awaiting Morgana and the royal family. She waved. 

Merlin gave a little wave back, cheered by the familiar face. The whole castle seemed to be present, as well as a mob of nobles Merlin had never seen before. Their attendants swarmed the tables, proffering bread, wine, and ale. Merlin soaked in the heat and noise of the crowd, overwhelmed. The nobles’ dæmons conferred privately behind their humans’ seats, making a ring of quiet chatter and animal heat around the feasting chamber. Servants wove between tables, carefully marking space between themselves and the swarm of dæmons. Their own dæmons, dogs for the most part, clung tightly to heel. 

As servants finished the last arrangements of dishes and silverware, the trumpets sounded again, and the crowd of bustling attendants parted like a wave. Those nearest the entrance sprang away, Merlin noticed, as though the ancient oak doors might burn them. 

The doors swung open, revealing King Uther Pendragon, clad in shining armor as though just returned from battle, crown lounging easily on his forehead. He stepped through the door, raising one graceful hand. The guests stood and the servants bowed; Gaius nudged Merlin sharply with an elbow, and he stooped with the rest of them. He heard the distinct thud of hooves on cobblestone, and, surprised, risked a glance above the sea of lowered heads. 

The King’s dæmon strode through the parted crowd. Her hooves beat the ground beneath her with the leaden weight of an ancient beast. Merlin gaped, taking in the full breadth of a creature easily twice the size of the bulls of Ealdor, horns jutting out of her broad forehead like deadly spears. _An auroch,_ he thought numbly, as the dæmon paced through the silent hall. They said the _Pobl Hynafol_ hunted the last of them, years ago. Long before the kingdoms. Long before living memory. 

Yet here she was. She stepped lazily after the King, settling behind the royal table with a rumble that shook the castle’s walls. Uther approached his seat, placing one hand on its crest. He did not move, even as the crowd sighed in appreciation for the Lady Morgana’s beauty, as she approached the table, as she reached out a hand for her own chair. Gwen watched her carefully, and they exchanged a private look. Through it all, Uther’s face was stone. 

Finally, to Merlin’s dread, the Prince appeared, Hadriana at his heels. As he took his place beside Uther, his dæmon keeping a careful distance, the King plucked a goblet of wine from the table and raised it. 

“Camelot,” he began, voice ringing through the hall, “has now enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity. We have rid ourselves of the plague of sorcery, and now receive our just reward.” Morgana shot him a tight glance, mouth pursed and angry. “To the future of Camelot!” He raised his goblet, to Morgana, to Arthur, and to the hall.

“To the future of Camelot,” chorused the guests. The servants shuffled, silent. 

“And now,” Uther continued, “to my son, the most honorable man in Albion, and the holder of our kingdom’s future.” Merlin stifled a snort. Arthur nodded soberly, but did not meet his father’s eyes. “Stand, Arthur, and receive your people’s blessing.”

Arthur stood, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. The nobles clapped, the servants chimed in, all except for one. 

One. There. Merlin could see her, conspicuous as a motionless tree in a storm. She stood at the center of the room, badger dæmon bristling by her side, ready to carve the roast boar for the King’s table. 

Knife in hand. 

Merlin’s vision narrowed down to a cold certainty. 

“Uther Pendragon!” the woman shrieked, and the crowd fell abruptly silent. Uther stood, pushing back his chair. He searched her face for recognition. 

_“Brenin y lludw,”_ she wailed, “King of ashes! Oath-Breaker! Purge-Bringer! Child-Killer!” She shuddered, dæmon howling in pain. The room held its breath. Guards in all corners slowly raised their swords. “You have killed my Thomas,” the woman wept, swaying side to side. “My son, my joy, you have slaughtered him, another corpse for your endless war.” 

“Your son was a monster,” Uther replied calmly, voice like lead. “Your son brought the war to my kingdom, not I.” 

“Do not speak of him!” she shrieked, clutching the knife tighter. “Do not speak until you have suffered as I have suffered, Uther Pendragon. With my last breath, I shall give you my pain!” 

Her gaze swept away from Uther. She stared, shuddering, at his son’s ashen face, and she readied her knife. 

Many things happened at once. 

Guards rushed forward, pushing back tables, scattering nobles and dæmons alike. Servants fled down the corridors to make way. Father and son stared at the weeping mother in shock. A rope snapped, a chandelier swayed, an invisible hand swatted tables aside, and Merlin barreled forward, eyes glowing, landing squarely on his target. 

Arthur sprawled across the floor, covered thoroughly in Merlin, gaze fixed on the shuddering knife that pierced his vacant chair. 

There was a brief silence, before the chandelier fell. 

 

\---

 

“You have performed Camelot a great service,” began Uther, his sober face far too close for Merlin’s liking. 

“Oh, no,” Merlin protested weakly, “it was nothing, really--”

“You saved my boy's life. A debt must be repaid.” The King clapped his son on the back, clasping his shoulder firmly. Arthur winced. “No, father, this really isn’t necessary--” 

“You shall be rewarded a position in the royal household, as Prince Arthur's manservant,” he announced, garnering a few weak claps from the remaining nobles. The servants busied themselves clearing up the ruined tables, as a swarm of guards attempted to pry a (mysteriously) fallen chandelier off the broken body of Mary Collins. From the shadows of the hall, Gaius’s face loomed, his wrinkled face pale and eyes damp. 

Merlin turned away from the scene, sick to his stomach. He met Arthur’s eyes, and held his gaze for a moment, sharing in the evening’s profound discomfort. He gritted his teeth.

“Thank you, sire,” he managed, bowing his head briefly. “It is my duty to serve Camelot, and my...privilege, to serve your son.” 

Gwen was the only one to clap. Morgana stood by, shaken. The King nodded to Arthur and swept away, followed by the lumbering shadow of his dæmon. Hadriana sat mutely by Arthur’s side. Merlin thought he could see her trembling. 

 

\---

 

“What happened out there, my boy?” cried Gaius, visibly shaken. He shut the door hurriedly, embracing Merlin in his thin arms. Maddox fluttered anxiously around his head. Gaius pulled back, studying his ward. “The chandelier...did you cause it to fall, Merlin?”

Merlin closed his eyes. Hot tears welled up, spilling down his cheeks. Aithusa crawled out of Merlin’s pocket, clambering up his jacket and twining around his shoulders in the form of a soft-furred stoat. 

Gaius blinked, taken aback, but Maddox rallied quickly. “Sit down, you two,” pronounced the bat. “You’ve had quite a shock this evening.” Merlin dropped like a stone into a proffered chair, burying his head in his hands. 

“I don’t know what I am anymore, Gaius,” he choked. “I thought I came here to use magic for good, but I just used it to--” Merlin stopped, his chest heaving. “And now I’m supposed to go and be Arthur’s servant. Like nothing even happened.” 

A gentle hand dropped on Merlin’s back, rubbing soothing circles. “There, there, my boy, it’ll be all right.” Gaius exchanged a worried look with Maddox, who fluttered delicately over to Aithusa, landing carefully on the stoat’s back. Aithusa stiffened, and Gaius held his breath, but the dæmon quickly relaxed under Maddox’s slight weight. Hesitantly, delicately, the bat began grooming Aithusa’s fur. 

“You made a great sacrifice today, Merlin,” Gaius began, voice wavering. “You performed what seemed to you to be a great evil, in order to prevent a greater one. Because of you, Arthur still lives, and perhaps the poor woman’s soul may now find some measure of peace.” 

Merlin shuddered, remembering her dæmon’s howl of pain. “It doesn’t seem right.” 

“There is no right or wrong, Merlin, only what is and what isn't,” Maddox replied quietly. Aithusa’s ears twitched, and Merlin’s own eyes widened. “And, given what happened today, it seems that you two have some greater purpose here in Camelot than anyone could have imagined.” 

Merlin let his eyes droop shut again, soothed by Maddox’s steady grooming and Gaius’s gentle hand on his back. “Gaius?”

“Yes, my boy?”

“Can we still sleep in the spare room?” 

Merlin’s face was closed, expecting dismissal, and the old man’s heart almost broke. Maddox nipped Aithusa gently, getting a playful swat in return. “Of course,” Gaius cried, and his dæmon hurried to agree. “Of course you’ll stay.” 

Merlin, despite everything, managed a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **List of dæmon species:**  
>  **Merlin** \- Aithusa (unsettled, male)  
>  **Gwen** \- Dilys (Old English sheepdog, female)  
>  **Morgana** \- Mair (Beautiful Demoiselle damselfly, female)  
>  **Gaius** \- Maddox (Natterer’s bat, male)  
>  **Arthur** \- Hadriana (Eurasian lynx, female)  
>  **Uther** \- Isolde (Eurasian auroch, female)
> 
>  **Translations from the Welsh:**  
>  _Pobl Hynafol_ \- Ancient People  
>  _Brenin y lludw_ \- King of Ashes


	5. Aftermath

_The ground on the hill is frosted and bare, crunching underfoot. Twelve thin poles streak grey shadows across the barren earth. A curt order is barked, and the hooded man is forced to his knees._

_Thunder growls overhead. A faint line of gold, buffeted by the coming storm, drifts into the air; the man is pleading. Golden particles spin madly as they are sucked into the whirlwind._

_The heavens split, and the earth is consumed by fire, and the fire is smothered in the gasping throat of darkness, and the darkness swallows--_

 

Morgana was already screaming when she woke. 

“Milady!” someone was shouting, distantly. “Lady Morgana!” Her eyes were clamped shut, but the fire still blazed behind them. “Morgana, _please--”_

A cool hand cupped her cheek. She opened her eyes. 

“Gwen,” she croaked, throat parched and sore. Her maidservant disappeared, and Morgana’s treacherous throat keened for the loss, but Gwen returned with a cup of cool water and a worried look. Morgana took the cup, fingers trembling. Mair buried herself in the crook of her shoulder, hiding in the tangled curls of black hair. 

“Another dream?” Gwen said, voice low and soothing. Morgana nodded, sipping her water and pressing the cool glass against her cheek. A hand touched her forehead, pressing lightly, then -- hesitantly -- stroking her hair. “You feel feverish,” Gwen murmured. Morgana frowned, eyes closed, allowing herself the brief luxury of leaning into her maidservant’s touch. After a long, quiet moment, Gwen withdrew. 

“Shall I fetch Gaius?” she asked, and Morgana tensed. “No, Gwen,” she rasped, wincing as the curtains parted and flooded pale sunlight into the bedchamber. “Just...stay a moment.”

Gwen smiled, face radiating warmth and worry and _goodness,_ and all Morgana’s terrors seemed to suddenly evaporate. She patted the bed, and after a brief, considering pause, Gwen sat beside her mistress, Dilys resting at her feet. 

“What was the dream about?” Gwen asked, for the hundredth time. And for the hundredth time, Morgana replied, “I dreamt I was to be married to _Arthur,”_ and closed her eyes, to better enjoy Gwen’s endlessly-delighted laughter. 

\---

Gwen trotted down the steep stairwell, carefully balancing a tray of fish, cold toast and honey in her arms. _Elderberry tea, for the fever,_ she thought, biting her lip in concentration. _St. John’s wort, for melancholy. See if Gaius has any of that feverfew left._ She yawned, nodding blearily at the early-morning guard as she passed the main hall. _Fetch her more chamomile tea tonight._

_She didn’t eat her breakfast,_ she thought, as Dilys nudged the kitchen doors open with her nose. _Bring her some broth and sliced apples for lunch. This afternoon we can pick some of those strawberries she likes._ She dropped the tray off for the cooks, snatching a few slices of toast for her own breakfast. The dishwashers bantered and sang, scrubbing away in their dish barrels as servants returned with the remains of the castle’s breakfasts. Spits of pork and boar crackled in the roaring fireplaces, as the cooks prepared for luncheon. 

Munching on her cold toast, Gwen stepped into the back hallway, holding the door open for Dilys. They shivered their way down the stone corridor, missing the bustle and warmth of the kitchen. Gwen stood to knock at Gaius’s door, but stopped, alarmed by the muffled shouting inside the chamber. 

“Look alive, boy!” cried an older voice -- Gaius, of course. “It’s past sunrise, and you haven’t brought the Prince his breakfast!” Gwen winced in sympathy. A groan rose from behind the door, probably audible even from the kitchens. “The prat can get his own breakfast,” Merlin grumbled. Dilys flinched back from the door at the sound of a loud _smack,_ followed by a petulant growl. She exchanged a confused glance with Gwen. 

_Bats don’t growl,_ Gwen thought, finally pushing the heavy door open. _And neither do voles._

She stood in the doorstep, her dæmon’s head cocked, and for a moment they simply stared. At the sound of the creaking oak door, Gaius and Merlin promptly froze. Gaius held a heavy book in his hands, pulled back as if to smack Merlin once more for good measure; Merlin, his hair in utter disarray, nursed a bruised shoulder and an expression of sheer aggravation; Maddox fluttered anxiously around Gaius’s silver mane; and a bristling badger, having bared its teeth in a reasonably threatening snarl only moments before, slunk guiltily behind a table. 

Gwen cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt,” she began, “but Morgana’s had another nightmare...” Dilys whined, nuzzling Gwen’s hand for comfort. Gaius slowly lowered the book. 

“Ah. Yes,” the old man muttered awkwardly, “you’ll be wanting the herbal remedy, then.” He shot a parting glare at Merlin, before wandering off to his medicine cabinet. Gwen slowly approached Merlin, who looked ready to bolt. 

"Is that who I think it is, Merlin?” she asked, pointing to the badger, who was unsuccessfully attempting to hide behind a stool. Dilys padded closer, sniffing the air curiously.

Merlin hesitated, then gave a brief nod. The badger peered cautiously from behind the table. The two dæmons politely sniffed noses, and Dilys’ tail thumped happily against a chair. 

“You won’t tell anyone?” Merlin said quietly. “I know it’s a bit weird, and we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves…” Gwen cut him off, drawing him into a firm hug. 

“Of course,” she whispered, embracing him tightly. “I won’t tell a soul.” Merlin finally relaxed, shoulders drooping, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. 

“We can talk more later,” Gwen continued, pulling away to gaze at Merlin seriously. “But there might not _be_ a later, if you don’t bring the Prince his breakfast straightaway.” 

Merlin paled, and Aithusa leapt into the air, fluttering onto his shoulder as a wren before shifting again into his customary form. “Thanks, Gwen,” he called over his shoulder, sprinting out the door in a blur of gangly limbs. Gwen smiled fondly, turning to Gaius, who carried an armful of herbs and a bemused look.

“That young man is going to get himself killed one of these days,” he muttered to Gwen, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or tear his hair out in frustration. 

“I hope not,” Gwen replied, taking the bundle of herbs gratefully. “The castle seems a little brighter when Merlin’s around.” 

She thanked the physician and turned to leave, dæmon at her side, as Gaius massaged his brow. “It certainly does,” he murmured, closing his eyes in thought. “By the gods, it certainly does.” 

 

\---

 

Merlin dodged the second boot with surprising grace. The first one had already glanced off his forehead; for a brief, blissful moment, he imagined the Prince might have run out of ammunition. 

A goblet smashed into the wall behind him. _So much for that._

Merlin snatched an empty breakfast tray from the table as Arthur readied his next projectile, wielding it like a clumsy shield. He cowered behind it, eyeing the distance to the chamber door and calculating his odds. He heard a strange, choked growl from the Prince’s dæmon; Merlin winced, preparing for the next blow. 

The coughing growl continued, now joined by a barking laugh, and Merlin slowly lowered the tray in confusion. 

Hadriana sprawled across the chamber floor, coughing strangely. Merlin briefly wondered whether she was about to hack up a hairball, before realizing that the lynx was simply laughing at him. Arthur seemingly couldn’t decide whether to glare at his dæmon, continue flinging heavy objects at his servant, or mock Merlin’s makeshift armor, so he settled for sniggering along with Hadriana. 

“Sorry,” Arthur managed, stifling an unmanly giggle. “It’s just -- who taught you how to use a shield? You’re holding that thing like it’s a bloody umbrella.” Merlin bristled at the comparison. “Well, sire,” he shot back, “why don’t I throw something heavy at _you,_ and you can show me how to properly wield a _breakfast tray_ in combat.” Arthur raised his eyebrows, still sporting that damnably beautiful smirk. 

“Maybe I would, Merlin,” he replied, advancing on his servant, “if I thought you had the _slightest_ chance of hitting me in the first place.” Hadriana chuckled again, arching her back and stretching out her enormous paws in front of her. For the briefest moment, Merlin wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through that thick, soft fur, but as he drew face to face with Arthur his attention snapped back to the present. 

“I’ll be sure to bring breakfast on time tomorrow,” Merlin said hesitantly, slightly lost in Arthur’s cheekbones, “so as not to overly strain your throwing arm. _Sire.”_ He tacked on the honorific with a glare. 

Arthur resolved to throw Merlin in the stocks for impudence. He then recalled that Hadriana would likely not speak to him for hours afterwards. His dæmon had developed a maddening affection for their new servant -- likely because it infuriated Arthur to no end. 

After reciting an exhaustingly lengthy list of chores, Arthur watched Merlin bumble out into the hallway, no doubt guessing at the quickest route to the stables. Whether he’d be mucking them out or stealing a horse for a quick getaway, Arthur had no idea, but at least he’d be rid of the idiot boy for a while. 

“He did save our life, you know,” Hadriana rumbled, blinking at Arthur lazily. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

“That lop-eared bumpkin has no place in the royal household and you know it, Hadriana,” he grumbled in return. “I can’t imagine _what_ Father was thinking when he appointed him.”

“Perhaps he was simply overwhelmed with relief?” the lynx replied drily, rolling onto her side. Arthur reluctantly gave her tummy a ruffle. She purred in delight, lashing her stubby tail. “Yes, I’m sure he was utterly overcome,” Arthur grated, carding his fingers through her silky fur. “After all, he demonstrated so much emotion over the incident.”

The dæmon rolled over to nuzzle his hand, and for a moment he cradled her chin in his palm. She blinked at him with her large amber eyes. “He does care, you know,” she finally said, ears flattening slightly. “You didn’t see Isolde. She looked ready to trample that old woman.” 

Arthur grimaced. “And in gratitude for my life being spared, he assigned me a servant that could annoy me to death instead.” He glared at Hadriana, who stared smugly back. “What.”

“Nothing,” she purred demurely. Arthur stomped to his feet, retrieving his boots from the fireplace and knocking the ashes off them. “Are we going to Uther’s cabinet meeting today?”

Arthur knocked his boots together a little harder than necessary. “We regret to inform his Majesty that the Crown Prince is needed elsewhere,” he grated, “on urgent royal business.” 

“Ah,” said Hadriana, stretching. “I’ll fetch your crossbow, then.” 

 

\---

 

The Priest delicately mopped the sweat off his brow. Uther stood uncomfortably close to the fire, staring deeply into the crackling hearth, and if he noticed the Priest’s discomfort he chose not to mention it. 

“It sorrowed me to hear of your son’s brush with danger, my liege,” he began, his dæmon drooping her narrow head in respect. His words still held a brush of the Continent, Uther noted. An accent he still could not shake, after years preaching in this exiled land. Or perhaps one he chose to cling to. 

Isolde snorted, lumbering to her feet. She paced to Uther’s side, leveling a cold glare at the Priest, as her human stared intently into the flames. “You assured us that no traitors remained within the castle walls,” she rumbled, scraping one enormous hoof against the stone floor. 

The Priest grimaced, and his stork dæmon ruffled her wings defensively. “We could not anticipate the mother would act so brashly,” he replied, “in defense of a dead son, who in life flaunted all human decency. God rest their souls,” he added, bowing his head briefly. 

“She was likely a sorcerer herself,” Uther muttered. His cold eyes came to rest on the Priest, and the man shivered internally. “When I gave you a seat in my hall,” he continued, piercing the man with his icy gaze, “it was with the expectation that you would execute the rule of law, and root out these -- _dissidents_ \-- by any means necessary. Instead, you have drunk my wine, preached your foreign religion, antagonized my citizens, and yet…” His hand flexed, briefly, in the direction of his sword, just slow enough for the Priest to catch it. 

“And yet, you have failed to earn your keep.” Uther finished with a deceptively mild smile, stroking Isolde’s flank. 

“These pagans will be converted,” the Priest replied, slowly. “Their reliance on superstition and magic will be snuffed out, and they will come to see the true light of your rule, and of our benevolent Authority.” He locked eyes with the King. “Your efforts are _working,_ my liege,” he continued, soothingly. “The sorcerers and barbarians that plagued this land have been eradicated, and those who still cling to life have been driven out of the kingdom. You have done a great service to your people.” He paused, drawing a scroll slowly out of his breast pocket. 

“And now, we have hope that the great Evil may finally be wiped from these lands,” he finished, presenting the scroll to Uther with a bow. “Praise be.” 

Uther snatched it from his hands, scanning quickly. His brow darkened, and he shared a look with his dæmon. “What your Order proposes,” he ground out, “has it been done before?”

The stork dæmon shifted, nervously preening her white plumage. “No, my liege,” the Priest murmured, “never before has an exorcism of this magnitude been attempted.” He raised a cautious hand, pacifying the King’s wrathful look. “The ritual is sound,” he continued. “An exorcism on a smaller scale was executed in Lapland, with great success. All we require are the materials...and your blessing.”

Uther gritted his teeth, staring back into the fire. “And if it works?” he asked, clutching the scroll tightly. His voice wavered between hostility and hope. “Will we at last be free of this plague of sorcery?” 

“My liege,” the Priest replied, “if it works, we will be free from sin itself.” He backed hesitantly away from the silent King, recognizing a dismissal when he saw one. He sketched a quick bow, then fled, leaving the King and his hulking dæmon to contemplate the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes on the text:**  
>  For reference, I imagine the Priest's Order to be none other than the fledgling Magisterium of HDM lore. 
> 
> _The Hollow Dark_ takes place in a time period roughly analogous to our world's 500 AD. At this point, Christianity had been the official Roman religion for about a hundred years; however, the Roman Empire was in heavy decline, and Christian missionaries had to compete with well-established Celtic polytheism and the influx of Anglo-Saxan pagans. 
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, I imagine that the Magisterium arose at around the same time as early Christianity, was spread to Brytain during the period of Roman colonization, and meshed nicely with Rome's efforts to root out pagans, Druids, magic users, and other religious/political dissidents. 
> 
> Arthur and Uther are both of old Celtic stock, and may still hold some traditional Celtic religious beliefs. However, Uther's adopted a number of Roman ideals about civil rule, military strategy, and purging Camelot of magic users and Old Religion adherents; with those goals in mind, he's also inherited an uneasy alliance with the Magisterium.


	6. Dirty Work

_“Forbearnan,”_ Merlin muttered, glowering at the candle. Aithusa swished his tail. The warlock furrowed his brow, concentrating. _“Forbearnan!”_

The candle remained conspicuously unlit. 

He glared at it, eyes flashing gold. The candle erupted in a gust of flame, melting the wax into a scorched puddle. Aithusa leapt back, hissing, as Gaius smacked Merlin upside the head. 

“What did I say, boy? No shortcuts!” he chastised, snatching the dusty spellbook out of harm’s way. “This lack of control is _exactly_ why you must learn the old spells!” 

“I can’t do it, Gaius,” Merlin complained, massaging the back of his head. “I’ve never needed spells before. I’m mouthing the words, but nothing _happens.”_ Aithusa nuzzled Merlin’s chin comfortingly, peering over the tabletop from Merlin’s lap. 

“Well, how on earth do you manage to do _that,_ then?” Gaius said, waving his hands at the destroyed candle. Maddox landed on the table, clambering forward with his odd little wings and sniffing the wax puddle. 

Merlin stared thoughtfully into space. “It feels like there’s a well of power inside me,” he began slowly, “and it’s held back by some barrier. When I decide to do something, sometimes the barrier just -- releases -- and the magic comes flooding out.” He shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know how to explain it better than that.”

Gaius sighed, sitting down heavily at the table and smoothing out the pages of the spellbook. “This kind of power does not come naturally to most,” he mused, eyeing his young apprentice. “Before the Purge, traveling warlocks and hedge witches would proffer their services throughout the kingdom, and their skills were largely bound by the incantations they had mastered. Books such as these--” he tapped its sturdy cover-- “were highly prized items, representing many years of study.” He glanced meaningfully at Merlin. “That is to say, my boy, your natural talents are highly unusual, and I confess I am at somewhat of a loss on how to refine them.” 

Merlin groaned. “Don’t tell me I have to talk to the Dragon again.” Gaius stilled, and Maddox fluttered onto his shoulder. “You mean you have spoken to the Great Dragon?” the bat breathed. Aithusa’s tail puffed up, and he leapt onto the table. “Yes, much good it did us,” the cat sniffed, tail lashing furiously. “All he did was spout a bunch of riddles before flying off. Destiny this, Once and Future King that. I think he’s a bloody charlatan.” 

Gaius boggled, his mouth opening in outrage. “You had the honor of addressing the last remaining dragon in these lands,” he said furiously, “a being of unknowable power -- and you two simpletons act as though a _hedge witch_ just read your _palm!”_

“Aithusa said it, not me,” Merlin replied quickly, trying to pacify the enraged old man. “But this Great Dragon of yours might be losing it, Gaius. He told us that it’s our destiny to protect _Arthur,_ of all people.” 

Gaius gazed at Merlin solemnly. “Listen to me, Merlin,” he said, voice low. “If you learn nothing else from our lessons, know that the Great Dragon is not a creature to be trifled with. If he spoke of your destiny, you would do well to heed what he said.” 

"We will,” Merlin said, nudging Aithusa. The cat gave a begrudging nod. “Do you think the Dragon might help us control our magic?” Merlin continued, none too hopefully.

“The Great Dragon is a prisoner beneath this castle,” Gaius said grimly. “If the stories are true, he might indeed have glimpsed your true destiny, Merlin, but it is unlikely he will help much beyond what he has already revealed. The beast is no friend to the Pendragons.” Maddox shuddered, burying himself in Gaius’s white hair. 

“Well, that makes two of us,” Merlin muttered despondently. “If that’s true, why did he speak to me at all?” Gaius pursed his lips. “He may have felt your power calling to his,” the physician mused. “Beyond that, I cannot say; the Dragon has his own motives. Take great caution in your dealings with him, Merlin, and on no account let him to persuade you to release him from bondage.” 

Merlin nodded. “My hands started glowing,” he said absently. “When we went into the cavern. Aithusa too.” Maddox, who had been preening his soft fur, stopped abruptly. “It was beautiful,” Merlin added, eyes half lidded in thought. “Like golden dust.” 

Gaius stared at him intently. “I will look through my books,” he said, finally, “and let you know if I find any explanation. Now, let’s get back to the spell, shall we? Think about the word, and imagine it’s guiding your magic as it releases.” He placed a fresh candle on the table, then stepped carefully out of range.

The warlock closed his eyes, probing for the place of power. He repeated the spell in his mind, tracing the sharp edges of it. The word blazed like kindling. _“Forbearnan,”_ he gasped, extending a hand, feeling the power flow smoothly through his body. The candle sparked, then burned, casting a small light in the darkening room. 

“Well done,” Gaius said, clapping him on the back. “That’s enough practice for today. Memorize the eight fire spells of the Old Tongue by tomorrow, and we’ll try again.” 

 

\---

 

It seemed Merlin had hardly closed his eyes before he was rudely awoken, summoned to attend some hare-brained hunting expedition in the middle of the bloody night. He yawned hugely, glaring at the perpetrator. “Look alive, Merlin,” Arthur bellowed cheerfully, urging his horse forward. “Get a move on.” 

“It’s not even _sunrise_ yet,” Merlin complained, his own mare oblivious to his kicks. She plodded forward complacently, ears twitching. “We have all day to kill defenceless animals. What’s the hurry?” Arthur grinned evilly. “Early morning is the best time for deer hunting, Merlin,” he countered, “as anyone with a _brain_ would know.” His horse knickered, and he patted her neck with perverse cheeriness. Of course Arthur had to be a _morning person,_ Merlin thought bitterly. Aithusa huddled miserably in his usual pocket, already damp with the pre-dawn mist that billowed through the forest.

“He’s looking for any excuse to get out of the castle,” confided Hadriana, padding easily alongside Merlin’s sleepy mare. “Avoiding Father again. Not that I blame him.” She sniffed the air happily, loping ahead and muttering something to her human. He pulled to a halt, listening intently before leaping gracefully off the saddle. 

“Hold the horses,” Arthur whispered, drawing his mare over to a clumsily-dismounting Merlin. “And just...be quiet.” He handed Merlin the reins, drawing a sturdy crossbow out of his pack. Arthur crept into the bushes, followed by his dæmon, slinking forward on her wide, silent paws. Merlin patted his horse’s broad cheek and yawned again. 

Aithusa peeked out of his pocket, watching intently as the Prince and his dæmon disappeared into the forest. “Think we should follow them?” he murmured reluctantly. Merlin shook his head. “He’d probably shout at us for frightening the deer,” he muttered. “And I prefer that crossbow pointed _away_ from me, thank you.” 

He heard the _twang_ of a bowstring, a savage growl, and a shout of triumph, muffled by the thick foliage. Merlin trudged forward with the horses, following the sound of skittering hooves. He spotted Arthur and Hadriana at the edge of a clearing. The lynx grappled with a struggling deer as the Prince drew his knife. “Bring her down!” Arthur shouted, and the lynx wrenched the deer off her feet, jaws clenched on one kicking thigh. An ugly arrow pierced the deer’s neck, and she looked at the Prince with wild, glazed eyes as he drew the knife across her artery. _“Yn enw'r corned, Cernunnos, efallai y bydd eich marwolaeth yn hawdd,”_ he muttered quietly. 

Merlin winced, feeling slightly ill at the sight. He’d never had much of a stomach for bloodshed. He started forward again with the horses, almost out of the thick woods, when his gut dropped at the sound of a peculiar whistle. 

“That was a bird, wasn’t it?” he said hopefully, as Aithusa leapt out of his pocket and onto the bracken. His dæmon shifted into wolf form, snuffling the air. His ears flattened, and a soft growl emerged from behind his bared teeth. “I smell them,” he rumbled, stalking forward. “Bandits. At least five. They’re close.” 

“How close?” Merlin asked. Then he shut up. A knife pressed against one’s throat tends to have that effect, he thought, feeling the cold metal tickle his adam’s apple. Aithusa snarled -- a truly terrifying noise, Merlin thought dimly. A badger dæmon snarled back, baring her yellow fangs, and the sharp iron on Merlin’s throat dug a little deeper for emphasis. The warlock closed his eyes.

He reached out with his mind, fingers tracing over the world’s faults and vibrations -- the bright minds of sparrows glittering in the treetops, worms inching happily through moist earth, brave Aithusa blazing like a furnace, the slow creaking language of plants, a tree’s core, fragile and hollow, _push_ \--

The tree split with a deafening crack, plummeting to the unforgiving ground, and the badger dæmon screamed under its weight. The bandit howled along with her, dropping his knife. Arthur lifted his golden head at the hideous sound, and that was the last still moment, Merlin recalled later, before all hell broke loose. 

 

\---

 

“Who knew there was anything _useful_ about you, Merlin?” Arthur smirked, wincing as the bandage tightened. “Oi, careful with that!” He glared at his servant, who stared back with mutinous blue eyes. “If you want to wrap your own shoulder, be my guest,” Merlin replied shortly. “And I had no idea Aithusa would need to be so _useful_ on a bloody _deer hunt._ Does this happen often with you two?” 

Hadriana butted her huge head against Arthur’s bare chest, purring madly. “This sort of attack hasn’t happened in quite a while,” the Prince admitted, scratching her tufted ears with his free hand. “The bandits in this area are getting bolder. I expect they spotted the horses and expected we’d be fat nobles, easy to pick off.” 

Aithusa, fur matted and bloody, limped towards Hadriana and sniffed cautiously. The lynx turned to face him, blinking her huge eyes slowly. 

“You’re wounded,” Aithusa muttered. “I can smell it. You should be more careful.” He slumped heavily to the ground. Merlin winced, fumbling with a knot as his ears reddened. Arthur glanced curiously between the servant and his dæmon. 

“You should talk,” Hadriana replied. She eyed the wolf’s battered coat, tail twitching. The two dæmons stared at each other, unblinking, and both humans held their breath. Finally, Hadriana rose to her feet, padding over to Aithusa. He tensed, but didn’t shrink away. 

A silent decision was reached -- one of those secret moments, inscrutable to humans, utterly transparent to dæmons -- and Hadriana closed her eyes, touching noses with the trembling wolf. Without speaking, he rolled onto his side, exposing an ugly gash to the forest sunlight. She sank down beside him, and began, slowly, cleaning the wound. 

Arthur cleared his throat, eyes carefully raised to the sky. Merlin blushed madly. It was hardly uncommon for dæmons to groom each other, but -- to Merlin’s knowledge -- such an act was typically reserved for family members, close friends, and. Erm. Lovers. He felt Aithusa relax under Hadriana’s careful ministrations, the gash already closing. Of course, perhaps things were different among knights, he thought cautiously. Soldiers’ dæmons must be closer out of necessity. 

Aithusa’s tail began thumping weakly as Hadriana passed over a ticklish spot, and Merlin suddenly felt as though things were getting a bit out of hand. 

“So,” Arthur said roughly, clearing his throat. “How old are you, exactly?”

Merlin frowned, moving to the Prince’s purpling ribs, which had been badly bruised by the butt of a sword. “I’m nineteen. And before you ask -- yes I’m sure, no I’m not kidding, and yes, my dæmon is really still unsettled. I’ve heard all the jokes already, so don’t even start.” 

Arthur’s eyebrows couldn’t possibly raise any higher, but they were giving it a damned good try. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Merlin, but what the bloody hell is wrong with you?” 

“I see you inherited the King’s keen sense of tact,” Merlin deadpanned, earning a swat. Aithusa play-growled at Hadriana, whose stubby tail was lashing furiously. “Really, though,” Arthur persisted, “has Gaius checked your head for any damage? An unsettled dæmon at nineteen is….well...it’s unheard of, Merlin.” 

“You don’t say,” Merlin replied drily. He turned to the horse’s saddlebag, rummaging noisily. “I got plenty of reminders back in my village, trust me.”

“Is that why you left?” Hadriana asked, amber eyes wide. Merlin stilled. He turned back to Arthur, tossing him a soft pouch. “Healing poultice,” he said shortly. “You can apply that on the bruise once it starts to ache.” 

“Ah.” Holding the sachet gingerly between thumb and forefinger, Arthur sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, and tossed it into his pack. “Another one of Gaius’s concoctions, I take it.” Merlin nodded. Arthur stood to pull his tunic back on, wincing slightly. He cleared his throat. 

“You did rather well, earlier,” Arthur muttered, squinting at something rather interesting in the treetops. “Erm. That is to say...I’m glad you’re not completely useless in a fight, is all.” 

“Um. Thank you?” 

There was a pause, and absolutely no eye contact. Finally, Arthur coughed, slapping Merlin on the shoulder briefly. “Best get a move on,” he continued, cheeks reddening. “We’ve got a deer to gut.” He strode confidently back into the meadow. 

“Can’t we leave the bloody deer?” Merlin complained, trailing after Arthur, Aithusa slinking morosely behind. “I _did_ almost get my throat cut back there. Does your father typically give out hazard pay?” Hadriana barreled past them, nipping Aithusa lightly on the shoulder as she raced after Arthur. “Wouldn’t bet on it!” she shouted. 

“I quit,” Aithusa muttered. “Let’s go be a butcher’s apprentice, or something.” Merlin sighed, eyes fixed on the Prince and his purring companion. “They wouldn’t last a day without us, though,” he replied, trudging after his employer. “Right you are,” Aithusa sighed. “Right you are.” 

 

\---

 

“This is _embarrassing,”_ Aithusa hissed. “You are _utterly embarrassing.”_

“Shut _up,”_ Merlin hissed back. “Where did you hide it?” 

“I’m not telling. I thought you were _through_ with this disgusting habit.” Aithusa leapt nimbly off the bed and caught the satchel in his teeth, dragging it away from Merlin’s fumbling hands. He miscalculated the weight of his weasel form compared to the pack, however, and Merlin managed to snatch it back, furious rodent dangling from the drawstrings. 

“You’re the one who’s going to wake Gaius and Maddox,” Merlin grumbled, rummaging sightlessly through the bag until he found the desired container. “It’ll be Mum and Caron all over again.” Aithusa shuddered, dropping into Merlin’s lap and slinking under the nearest pillow. 

“Besides,” he muttered, leaning back on the bed and shutting his eyes. “Don’t tell me you weren’t feeling the same way earlier.”

“I certainly was _not,”_ Aithusa snipped. “I was _injured._ After helping save your hide, I might add.” He nipped Merlin’s ear lightly. “Emotions were just...running high, from the battle.” 

Merlin blushed in the darkness, remembering Arthur, panting and triumphant, scattering the few remaining bandits with his brandished sword and snarling dæmon. Wounded, laughing, swinging his blade lightly. Merlin’s guts clenched at the sight of slain men, but even on a battlefield, Arthur Pendragon still glowed like the sun. 

Merlin groaned, palming his eyes until stars appeared. “I can’t help it, ‘Thusa.” His head thudded against the pillow. A rustle, and his dæmon’s cold nose touched his cheek comfortingly. “I know,” he muttered. “I can’t either.” 

A few minutes later -- _embarrassingly_ few -- the night watchman was startled by a puff of sparks rising from a nearby chimney. He might have wondered at it, had a wave of languorous pleasure not washed through his mind at that same moment. Birds rustled in the castle rooftops; sleepers turned over, murmuring, in their beds. The Priest awoke in a hot sweat, and prayed for forgiveness. 

Camelot slept. It was a warm and restless night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations from the Welsh:**  
>  _"Yn enw'r corned, Cernunnos, efallai y bydd eich marwolaeth yn hawdd."_ "In the name of the horned one, Cernunnos, may your death be easy."


	7. Tremors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys..........finals really uh.....kicked my whole ass......
> 
> anyway here's an extra-long, extra-dramatic chapter to make up for lost time! 
> 
>  
> 
> chapter cw: child abuse

The bed was soaked with sweat. Morgana flung the sheets off in disgust, shivering. She wrapped her thin arms around herself and rocked like a child, eyes wide and unseeing. 

The dreams had only worsened over the last few months, bleeding into her waking hours until she could barely distinguish them. Last week, Arthur had asked her to pass the potatoes and she had dropped the dish in shock. She stood on a field of bodies. Arthur lay at her feet; his face was soft and childlike with fear, dead eyes staring blankly into space. Dæmons of every species littered the ground. Morgana opened her mouth to scream. 

She closed it. Arthur was helping a servant clean up the scattered potatoes. Uther asked her if she was feeling unwell, and Morgana shuddered, standing abruptly. She murmured that she felt faint, was going to see Gaius. Went to her room and banged the back of her head against the wall. Her nails were bloody crescents by the time Gwen found her. 

Morgana rose. Clad only in a thin nightgown, she walked into the hallway. Mair burrowed deeper into her tangled locks. The castle was almost unearthly in predawn light; she hadn’t risen so early since she was a child, and the press of her bare feet against the cold stone brought back startlingly clear memories. Racing through the corridors. Teasing Arthur -- she was always quicker -- and daring him to tell on her. Discovering a bird’s nest in the parapet, and going back, day after day, until one morning she found newly-scrubbed floors and no nest at all. 

She paced down the hall, ascending the old staircase with familiar ease. The sun was only a faint suggestion below the horizon; the harvest moon hung low over the western mountains, ripe and yellow. Morgana sucked in a breath of crisp air, and held it. 

Perhaps if she stayed here long enough, she would blow away with the north wind. 

\---

Some time later -- it may have been hours -- she came back to herself. Her bare arms were numb, fine black hairs prickling in the cold, and her toes were nearly frozen solid. Geese honked loudly overhead, greeting the sun. Morgana gathered herself and stepped briskly down the stairwell, Mair humming faintly in her ear. 

Shouting. Muffled. Closed door. Uther, in one of his rages? No, Arthur. What could he be shouting about, so early? She paused, then snuck quietly down the hallway, her feet stiff and clumsy with the cold. She heard a dish shatter, and winced. 

“You can’t let him do this!” Voice higher, sharper -- Merlin, then. That boy was out to get himself killed, apparently. “You heard what the man said! His village is already starving!” 

“I heard him, Merlin,” growled Arthur. “What I fail to see is why you think this is somehow _my problem.”_ Morgana narrowed her eyes. Always the humanitarian, her foster brother. Merlin would have more luck drawing water from a stone. 

“You’re the Prince! Don’t you have some sense of -- of responsibility?” A thin growl. Not Hadriana, Morgana noted. That vole dæmon must be louder than he looks. 

"My responsibility is to defend Camelot and uphold my father’s rule,” Arthur said, voice low and deadly. “What would you have me do?” 

There was a horrible silence. 

“Talk to the King,” Merlin managed. “Tell him he’s making a mistake. You have to do _something--”_

“That’s _enough.”_ There was an awful silence. “I have my duties. I know my place. You seem to have _forgotten_ yours.” Morgana heard footsteps, and quickly ducked around a corner. “Get out of my sight,” Arthur spat, as the door creaked open. 

“Arthur, don’t _do this--”_ The door slammed shut. 

Morgana watched Merlin stomp down the hallway, eyes hot and red as coals. “That was very stupid,” she said mildly, watching him jump. She waited, as Merlin set his jaw. Paused. Slowly turned. 

_“Arthur_ is the one being stupid,” he muttered mulishly.

“Never said he wasn’t,” Morgana replied, giving a thin smile. “You’re _both_ quite stupid, you know.” Mair hummed in agreement. “I thought, after a few months in Arthur’s service, you’d have learned how things work around here. It seems I was wrong.” She advanced toward him, noting his stiff spine, his damp eyes, his clenched fists. _Stupid and brave._

“Let me tell you a story,” she heard herself say. Voice hazy, as though speaking from a great distance. What was she doing? “Arthur has never, in his life, defied Uther. Not directly. Not visibly. Except…” 

She closed her eyes, remembering. “Except for once.” 

 

\---

 

_A girl, weeping, knees buckled on the filthy floor of her cell. Alone. Arms crossed tight against her chest, she rocks, and rocks. Her dæmon is a sparrow, feathers matted and torn. The boy watches. His face is almost hidden behind a pale cap of golden hair. His father’s hand grips his shoulder._

_“Her father was a sorcerer,” he says, voice gravel and stone. “Her mother was a witch.” The girl keens, dissolving into sobs. The boy’s palms are sweaty. “You see, Arthur, how innocent they seem. How helpless.” The father nods to a guard, who approaches the cell door. The girl begins to shriek. Keys jangle. The door creaks open, and shut, and there is a ringing slap. Silence. Muffled whimpers._

_She is pushed out, stumbling, iron cuffs comically large on her tiny brown wrists. Arthur’s eyes widen. He feels the hand on his shoulder tighten, and he does not turn away._

_His father’s dæmon rumbles, “See, Hadriana, her dæmon is a sparrow. Birds are a particular favourite of witches’ dæmons.” Hadriana is in the form of a trembling polecat. Trying to be brave._

_His father nods to the guard, who stoops, removes her cuffs. The girl sways on her feet, flexes her shaking hands. Hadriana can smell the stink of her fear._

_“Make no mistake, son. This is an_ incantatrix. _A spider, a serpent in human form. She is not like you. She will kill you if she gets the chance.” His father ruffles his hair. “We shan’t give her that chance, of course. But a demonstration must be made.”_

_The guard crouches, takes her tiny hand in his. She freezes, eyes wide with terror. He pinches her littlest finger and snaps it backwards._

_Arthur’s nails are drawing blood in his palms and he does not feel it. Hadriana winds tight around his boots. The girl is crying, as quietly as she can._

_“You can stop this if you want to,” his father calls to the girl. “You can stop this. We know what you can do.”_

_She closes her eyes, face blank. His father grimaces. Nods to the guard. He pinches another finger--”_

_“Stop!” somebody shouts. “Stop it!”_

_Pause. The boy is shaking, now, bloody palm clapped over his own mouth. He feels his father’s eyes but he can’t look, he can’t look--_

_“You have learned nothing,” Uther growls. His fingers dig into the flesh of Arthur’s shoulder. More bruises to hide away later. “You will learn this lesson now, Arthur, you will burn it into your heart, so that one day it may save your life:_ never trust a sorcerer.” __

_He shoves the boy forward, and he stumbles. Hadriana is a mouse, now. The smallest mouse she can be. “Hold out your hand,” his father says, and he does, and the girl is yanked forward, and her trembling fingers meet his._

_“Break her finger,” his father says. Arthur looks into her eyes. They are brown. She looks at him, overflowing with silent tears, and he turns his head away._

_“Do not defy me again, Arthur, Uther says, voice quiet with rage. “If you are my son, you will do this. If you wish to live long enough to rule--”_

__Snap. _Frail little fingers. It would almost be easy, if his own hands weren’t shaking. She wails, but Arthur can’t hear her anymore._ Snap. _She trembles, and her eyes flood with gold, and the shriek in his head drowns out everything--_

_He wakes up in his father’s arms. He’s limp, shaking, dripping with sweat and fear. His father’s chest is cold armor, and he’s afraid to look up. He clenches his eyes shut._

_“What happened?” cries Master Gaius. “My lord--”_

_“Superficial burns,” Uther replies shortly. “Get him fixed up. He must not fall behind on his training because of this.” He’s deposited in the sickbed, almost tenderly. His father brushes the hair from his face. Isolde carries Hadriana delicately, like a mother cat, holding her by the scruff of her neck. She drops the tiny creature beside Arthur. She shivers by his side._

_“You did well, boy,” Uther murmurs, turning away. “Remember your lesson.”_

 

\---

 

Merlin’s face was white. “Arthur was in bed for three days,” Morgana finishes. “Uther was furious. After that, he threw himself into training. He wouldn’t talk to me for weeks. I begged Gaius to tell me what was wrong, and finally, he told me what had happened in the dungeon.” She gave him a searching look. “Do you understand?” 

Merlin turned away, and Morgana wondered vaguely if he was about to vomit. “Yes,” he managed, then-- “what happened to the girl?”

Morgana held herself very, very still. “Oh, Merlin,” she murmured sadly, “what do you think?” 

He stared blankly at the wall. Morgana put a delicate hand on his shoulder. “Go see Gaius,” she said. “Do your chores. By next week, Arthur will have forgotten all about this.” She patted his back awkwardly. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.” His hand wandered to his pocket, dæmon carefully tucked away inside. 

“What on earth are you sorry for?” Morgana replied, raising her eyebrows. “I’m rather proud of you for standing up to Arthur. Even if it was stupid. Nobody’s done that for some time now -- except for me, that is.” 

“No,” Merlin said. “I’m sorry about Uther.” He stared at her, blue eyes wide and guileless, and Morgana felt the weight of that stare for hours afterward, that gaze that saw every raw wound inside of her. She stared out the window, blinking at the raw autumn sky. She waited for Gwen. 

 

\--- 

 

Gwen’s cheeks were wet by the time Merlin finished. “Oh, _duw achub ni,_ Merlin…” she whispered, hand over her mouth. “Morgana never told me…”

Merlin shifted uncomfortably on the stone bench, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “I’ve no idea why she told me instead of you,” he said, a flash of guilt in his face. “You’re the one she confides in. I barely know her. And Arthur’d likely kill me if he found out,” he added. 

Gwen frowned, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve. “He wouldn’t. He cares for you too, you know. He’s just…”

“A prat?” Merlin offered. “Simpleton? Cow--” He bit off the word. Thought of a small boy with golden hair, shouting at his father, trembling with defiance. Not a coward. “Anyway,” he continued weakly, “it still doesn’t excuse it. He's going to cut off their food supply, Gwen. During a _famine._ Uther will squeeze that village dry, and Arthur won’t do a thing to stop it.” 

“You know how the King is about sorcery, Merlin,” Gwen sighed. “He’s made up his mind that the village is harboring druids--” 

“Based on rumors!” Merlin hissed. “They’re going to _starve,_ Gwen, and all because of some half-baked _tavern stories--”_

“And he’s going to make an example of them,” she continued, “and no, Merlin, it’s not fair, and it’s never _been_ fair, but there is nothing we can do about it. Not even Prince Arthur can change the King’s mind. Not about this.” Dilys whined, glancing between Merlin and Gwen. Her shaggy tail thumped nervously on the cobblestones. 

“Maybe he could,” Merlin replied savagely, “if he’d just -- _agghhhh.”_ He dropped his head into his hands. “If he’d just _listen_ to me for once.” 

“Don’t feel bad,” Gwen said, giving him a half-hug and a hint of a smile. “The Prince doesn’t listen to anyone, haven’t you heard? Not even Morgana can get through to him these days.” She paused suddenly. “Merlin, that’s it!” 

“What’s it,” he muttered. 

“If anyone could talk Arthur into doing something, it’s Morgana. And if both of them spoke to Uther--” 

Merlin glanced up. “You think?” Aithusa reappeared from his sulk, peeking out from Merlin’s front pocket. 

Gwen smiled widely, pulling him to his feet and dusting off his shoulders. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? Now come on, let’s get an audience with the Princess of Camelot.” 

Merlin grinned back at her. “After you, my lady.” He dropped into a bow, then yelped as Gwen took off running. “Oi, Gwen, wait up!” 

They raced into the castle, trailed by their dæmons and alight with hope. 

 

\---

 

There were rat droppings on the floor. Hadriana narrowed her eyes, almost crossed with the effort of focusing on the tiny brown pellets. She sniffed the air. “Arthur,” she hissed. No response. _“Arthur.”_

A grunt, from the general vicinity of the bed. 

“Stop sulking. You need to apologize.” She leapt gracefully onto the bed, nosing at the back of her human’s head. The royal face, she noted, was presently holding audience with a couple of pillows. “You can’t avoid it forever!” 

“Watch me,” he grumbled, voice muffled.

“You’re acting like a child,” she hissed, pawing at his shoulder. “Come on. You know Merlin was right about Uther, you’re just scared to admit it--” 

“Scared!” he roared, raising his head to glare at his dæmon. “I am not _scared_ to admit _anything!”_ His face was beet red, and his hair looked like a bird’s nest, which took away from the effect somewhat, she thought. 

“Then go ahead and tell him you were wrong,” Hadriana purred. “And go tell off Father, too, since you’re so brave all of a sudden.” Her tail lashed, and she dodged the pillow easily. 

“You are utterly useless, you know that?” he growled, rolling out of bed to stomp around the chambers again. “I’m taking you to the marketplace and selling you off to Pictish traders.” 

“Lies upon lies,” she replied sweetly, watching him with her keen amber eyes. “You love me. And Morgana would throw you in the moat,” she continued thoughtfully. He turned back to retort something -- _we don’t even_ have _a moat,_ perhaps -- when his face blanched. He cautiously raised one bare foot to examine the sole. 

Arthur’s eyes slowly met those of his dæmon, who was now consumed with a fit of huffing laughter. “You see?” she snickered, rolling onto her back and glancing at her enraged human. “You’ll have to apologize, or our room will never again be free of rat pellets.” 

“That would imply he ever cleaned anything in the first place,” he muttered, stomping over to the washbin. He had only just managed to clean the slime off his feet when he heard the knock at his door. 

“I thought I told you to _clear off,_ Merlin, you utter--” he yanked the door open and stumbled back, shocked. “Morgana! What in seven hells--” 

“Now, is that any way to greet your foster sister?” Morgana said sweetly, sweeping past him into the room. “Gods, you antagonize your servant for five hours and your rooms already look like Isolde trampled through them.” 

Arthur sputtered. “I don’t -- what -- hang on!” He slammed the door, then wheeled back round. “This isn’t a social visit, Morgana, so out with it. Are you here to advocate for servant’s rights again, or just to antagonize me?” 

“Can’t a girl multitask?” she asked brightly, raising her hands in surrender. Her face was just as sharp and beautiful as ever, but she was even paler than usual, he noticed. (And yes, he does notice things on occasion, _Merlin,_ he thought, before realizing he was talking to his own servant in his head, _gods_ does he need a holiday.) 

“Shouldn’t you still be in bed? I thought Gaius told you to rest after the last...episode,” he said, chest tight with some combination of malice and genuine worry. Morgana, predictably, glared. “Honestly, Arthur, I’m not some old woman,” she snapped, “and while I’m sure you and Uther would _both_ prefer me locked up in my rooms, I’m not about to stay there and _embroider_ all day."

“Right. Well.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Get on with it, then.” Hadriana leapt silently to the floor, padding over to his side. Mair twitched her wings at her in what Morgana thought might be a vaguely offensive gesture. 

She took a deep, steadying breath. “Now, you know you’re my favorite brother--”

 _“And_ least favorite, you harridan--”

 _“But,”_ she continued, glaring, “it’s come to my attention that you’ve been neglecting your duties of late.” 

“Me!” Arthur sputtered. 

“Yes, Arthur, now pull yourself together! You’re a big, brave prince, so act like one!” Morgana punched him on the shoulder, and watched him pretend not to wince. “You can’t lick Uther’s boots forever, you know.”

He flared, as she knew he would. Arthur had always been so easy. “How _dare_ you!” he bellowed, and even Hadriana was growling. “This is about Merlin, isn’t it! That treacherous, insubordinate little--” 

“When your own servant is more abreast of domestic policy than the _Crown Prince of Camelot,_ you can’t blame him for trying to nudge you into action, Arthur. Never thought you one to shy from a battle, but I supposed even a Knight’s legendary bravery must fail sometimes…” She oozed condescension, fighting down a grin as Arthur leapt for the bait. 

“Bravery, is it? I’d like to see _you_ talk Uther out of this!” His face was flushed an unhealthy red, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. 

“Wonderful! We’ll go together, then.” Morgana wound her hand around his arm and steered him into the corridor, sputtering incoherently, as Mair buzzed triumphant circles round his head. 

 

\--- 

 

“How _dare_ you question my authority!” 

Morgana’s headache was back, stabbing her temples as she glanced between the raging King and his white-faced son. “I aim to protect this kingdom from the curse of sorcery, and you two would see me bow to a mob of druids and criminals!” 

“Father, I think that’s a slight mischaracterization…” Arthur began weakly, halted by a fiery look from Isolde. Steam was snorting from her flared nostrils. That was never good. Morgana took Uther’s arm, conjuring up an imploring look. “My King. My Prince. Please, sit, I beg of you.” 

Uther’s jaw clenched tight enough to break glass, but he and Arthur lowered into their seats, glaring at each other across the table. 

“That’s better,” Morgana said soothingly. “Now, I’m sure Arthur would hardly accuse you of treating unfairly with your own subjects.” She shot him a look. “Nor would either of you wish to jeopardize the safety of Camelot.” 

_“Never,”_ Arthur interrupted vehemently. Uther’s expression softened slightly, and Morgana pressed the point. “And no better way to ensure Camelot’s safety than to pursue every angle of defence, is that not so?” She met Uther’s iron gaze, and could have whispered a prayer of thanks when he nodded slightly. “Then trust me, trust your son, that we speak only to protect Camelot from scandal and ruin.” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” Had Uther been any other man, Morgana would have said he looked thrown off guard. Isolde turned one enormous, pitch-black eye on Morgana, pinning her to the wall, but she’d borne that look since Morgana had first been caught playing in the fireplace with a sooty ermine Mair, and it wasn’t about to stop her now. 

Arthur jumped in, bless him. “The villager came to me in confidence, Father. His family had been threatened by the druids, and he feared telling you the full story, but his loyalty to Camelot won out over all.” He straightened his shoulders, eyes fixed on a point above Uther's left shoulder. Always a terrible liar, her foster brother. Fortunate that Uther was as comically imperceptive as he was suspicious. Morgana silently prayed he wouldn’t notice Hadriana slinking guiltily behind Arthur’s boots. 

“The man lied to me!" Uther growled in disbelief. "He claimed the village harbored no sorcerers! I’ll have him in chains for this--” 

“He didn’t lie, Father,” Arthur replied, finally meeting Uther's furious gaze. Morgana bit her lip, waiting for the lie to shatter. “There are no druids in the village now. A pair passed through three months ago, demanding the villagers’ fealty, but they valiantly resisted. The druids were driven out, but they threatened to slaughter every woman and child in the village should word of their appearance reach the castle.” 

“Monsters,” Uther spat. He was enraptured by the lie, caught up in his own bloodlust. Morgana felt sick to her stomach. “These people defied a pair of dangerous magic users,” she pressed, “and under threat of slaughter, came to warn Camelot. To punish the village would not only be unjust, it would give Camelot the appearance of internal conflict our enemies could only use to their benefit. And what will they say, should our people discover that the reward for resisting druids is starvation?” 

The King stood abruptly, pacing the floor. He laid a hand on Isolde’s broad flank, conferring silently. “The man lied. The punishment for such treachery is severe.” He stroked her neck, and Morgana felt the moment stretching, the future pushing into a new configuration--

“But I’ll not have it be said that Camelot is ungrateful to the loyalty of her citizens,” he announced, swinging to face them. “Our people have suffered enough at the hands of sorcerers. The man will be reprimanded, but his village will be spared the penalty.” 

Arthur stood, bowing his head gracefully. It had the added benefit of hiding his shocked face. “A just ruling, Father.” Morgana clasped the King’s shoulder, giving him the full force of her smile. “And a gracious one,” she added sweetly. His eyes bored into her, searching. 

“Bring the man to me,” he said at last, turning away in dismissal. “I shall determine a fair punishment. And Arthur?” 

The Prince turned, jaw tight, expecting violence, and was shocked by the soft hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a boy anymore, are you?” his father murmured. Uther slapped his son’s back once, nodded, then strode out of the hall, followed by his dæmon. 

Arthur turned to Morgana. “What...just happened?” he muttered, eyebrows furrowed. He absentmindedly tugged one of Hadriana’s ears; she leaned against his thigh, eyes unreadable. 

“You argued with Uther. And won. Congratulations,” Morgana replied, raising a graceful hand for Mair to light on. “No time for celebration, though. We’ve got to tell that poor fellow how he saved his village.” 

 

\--- 

 

“You think the King might put Arthur in the stocks?” Merlin said thoughtfully. Gwen shook her head, stifling a giggle. Merlin sighed. “More’s the pity.”

“I don’t see what’s funny,” the man replied, a cool flicker of anger in his voice. “If what you tell me is true, the Prince is the only hope I have of saving my town from starvation.” 

“Sorry, mate,” Merlin said quickly, grimacing. “I didn’t mean that. The Prince has just been more of a prat than usual, lately.” He stroked Aithusa’s soft fur; the dæmon nuzzled his thumb, then scampered quickly across the tavern table. The man’s dæmon, a dignified-looking wildcat with flashing green eyes, looked bemused as Aithusa addressed her. 

"I'm terribly sorry. He was raised in a barn." The vole leaned in conspiratorially. "A bit simple, you know." Merlin threw his napkin at him. “I’m Aithusa," he continued, undeterred. "Merlin's the one with the ears. That one is Gwen, and that big mop of fur down there is Dilys.” 

The man -- hair falling in dark, dramatic swoops across his forehead, and Merlin would tease Gwen later for her increasingly besotted looks -- glanced at his dæmon. “Lancelot,” he said, finally. “This is Éliane.” He stroked her striped forehead, a soft purr emanating from her throat, and huh. Maybe Merlin has a type. 

He shook that thought away, fighting a blush. “Good to meet you, Lancelot,” he replied, nudging Gwen, who nodded dazedly. “Sorry for accosting you during your lunch, shockingly uncivilized of us, we should probably get going now--”

“No,” Lancelot interrupted, motioning them to sit. “You just gave me the first good news I’ve heard all day. I’m very grateful.” He flashed his doe eyes at Gwen, who looked ready to faint. “And I’m curious. How in heaven’s name did you persuade the Prince to intercede on my behalf? You are both servants, are you not?” 

“Nah,” Merlin said, grinning cheekily. “Real powers behind the throne, Gwen and me. Stick with us, Lance, and we’ll get you places.” 

Lancelot shot him a smile that could make a wyvern swoon. Aithusa toppled off the table. 

\--

Half an hour later, Gwen and Merlin were thoroughly appraised on Lance’s history (tragic), family (killed), village (poor, in a vaguely loveable kind of way), and skill set (baking, hitting things); Lancelot had gotten an earful of castle politics and servants’ gossip; Gwen had convinced Merlin to show Lance the trick he could do with a spoon, three tankards and an egg; and the three had been summarily kicked out of the tavern. 

“Sorry, Nance!” Merlin bellowed at the bartender, who slammed the door firmly shut. “She’ll forgive me, soft heart under all those boils,” he said, slinging a companionable arm over Lance’s shoulder. If he had to reach up a bit, well, that was no call for Gwen to start snickering. 

“You’ve lightened our hearts,” Lancelot said, smiling at Gwen. Éliane trotted alongside Dilys, whispering together like old friends. “I can’t thank you enough. I am so grateful for the loyalty and courage I’ve found here in Camelot, despite--” 

He broke off, startled. Merlin followed his gaze, and gripped his shoulder tighter. “We won’t let them take you, Lance,” he muttered, staring down the approaching guards. “When I say run, you--”

“Wait!” hissed Dilys, sniffing. “Arthur’s right behind them. And--”

“Morgana!” Gwen cried, waving urgently. “Lady Morgana, you can’t--”

“Everyone just calm down.” Arthur pushed through the ring of guards, who parted easily, giving Hadriana a wide berth. He looked Lancelot up and down appraisingly, then broke off to glare at Merlin. “What do you think you’re -- never mind. Master Lancelot, you’re to come with us. The King has requested another audience.” 

Lancelot tensed. “What is the nature of this audience, my Prince?” 

Arthur frowned, leaning forward. “Your village’s valiant defence against the druids is being appraised, in light of the new information you’ve provided.” 

“What? My liege, I tell you what I told your father -- there _are no druids,_ you must believe me--” 

“Come, no more need for false pretenses,” Arthur called loudly, stepping closer to Lancelot. “Camelot thanks you for your service, though of course your initial silence on this matter may be reprimanded--”

“But--”

“Speak no more,” he said breezily, patting Lancelot on the shoulder. “You’ve told me everything I need to hear. I’m certain the King will be generous, now that he knows the druids threatened your women and children in exchange for your silence.” 

Lancelot paused, glancing incredulously at Merlin, who shrugged. “Yes...my liege. Of course. I will follow you...to the castle.” 

“Good!” Arthur turned to Merlin. “And if you’re finished sulking like a girl, my chambers need cleaning.” Hadriana licked a paw and swiped at her face, covering a smug little smile. 

Merlin looked from Arthur to Lancelot, back to Arthur, over to Gwen (who was now whispering with Morgana), back to Arthur. “I’m sure they do. Can’t imagine the havoc you caused while I was taking my day off.”

“You don’t get days off, Merlin, so don’t think I won’t make you clean the stables again tonight. Off you go.” He took Merlin by the shoulders, spun him around, and booted him towards the castle. Merlin muttered _prat_ under his breath, just loud enough for Hadriana to hear, and if Arthur grinned like a schoolboy for the first time that day, well, it must have been simple pleasure in a job well done. That’s all. 

\--

“The King looked like he wasn’t sure whether to strangle Lance or bearhug him,” Merlin said, voice blessedly muffled as he scrubbed the floor under the bed. “Gods, Arthur, there’s a dead rat down here!” 

Arthur glared at Hadriana, who blinked innocently. “Must have perished in its sleep,” she purred, earning a swat around the ears. 

“Did it decapitate itself in its sleep, too?” Aithusa piped, skittering from under the bed in disgust. He shifted into a ginger cat, mimed hacking a hairball, and scampered away from Hadriana’s pounce. “Ooh, maybe it was killed by whatever bit off your tail, Hadriana!” he called. 

Arthur shook his head, stalking over to where Merlin’s (highly ~~distracting~~ unprofessional) rump stuck out from under the bedspread. A light kick and some heavy cussing ensued, before an irritated Merlin shuffled out, dusted with grime. 

“What!” Merlin grumped, scrubbing dirt off his (frankly alarming) cheekbones. His eyes were very blue. Arthur coughed. 

“I suppose you think I should thank you.” He glared at the wall. Merlin gaped at him. “Um?” he managed. 

“Well, I’m not going to,” Arthur said with finality. “So don’t get any ideas.” He punched him on the shoulder awkwardly, and moved off to his desk, shuffling paperwork. Hadriana padded over, deposited a scraggly-looking stoat at Merlin’s feet, and flounced away. Merlin gave Aithusa a bewildered look.

“It was the right thing to do, was all,” Arthur muttered, barely audible. 

Merlin beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations from Welsh:**  
>  _duw achub ni_ \- God save us
> 
>  **List of dæmon species:**  
>  **Merlin** \- Aithusa (unsettled, male)  
>  **Gwen** \- Dilys (Old English sheepdog, female)  
>  **Morgana** \- Mair (Beautiful Demoiselle damselfly, female)  
>  **Gaius** \- Maddox (Natterer’s bat, male)  
>  **Arthur** \- Hadriana (Eurasian lynx, female)  
>  **Uther** \- Isolde (Eurasian auroch, female)  
>  **Lancelot** \- Éliane (European wildcat)


	8. Adumbrant

Fall had drizzled into winter. A cold damp crept into the castle, dribbling down the stone walls and beading moisture on the windows. At night it froze, leaving slug-trails of ice on every surface; outside, the snow began to fall in soggy droplets. 

Gwen took a quick step back from the roaring fireplace. Her eyebrows were warm coals against her face, singed from the heat billowing out of the hearth. She stooped for another log, tossing it gracelessly into the flames, scattering sparks. Her finger stung. 

She examined it, wincing at the thick splinter embedded beside her nail. Dark blood beaded at the tip. She looked around for a handkerchief, napkin, something small--

“Gwen?” 

She jumped, clutching her hand to her chest. “Morgana!” she cried softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“You didn’t.” Morgana stood in the doorway, blanket wrapped carelessly over her pale blue nightgown. Firelight licked at her creamy skin, her raven-black hair tangled by sleep. “Is everything alright, Gwen?” 

“I’m fine,” she said, embarrassed. “Just a splinter.” She swallowed. It was too warm; the fire was swelling in its hearth, scorching the gray stone black, but the snow howled wild at the room’s edges, reaching clammy fingers down the chimney and under the sill, and her skin prickled as though it were cold. 

Morgana was close, quiet, taking Gwen’s hand like she took every other thing, like it belonged to her. Gwen should pull away, apologize, go back to bed. She shivered. Morgana bent over the wounded finger, eyes keen in the half-light of the room; she turned Gwen’s hand this way and that, tracing its calluses, its myriad of tiny scars. 

“Wait here.” She swept into the bedroom; Gwen felt tight and hot, too heavy to move an inch. Dilys whined and slumped to the floor at her feet, nudging her silky head against Gwen’s calf. Rustling, tinkling, footsteps. Morgana, tweezers glinting silver in her palm. “Show me again.” 

Her head was bent, hair tumbling loose and brushing Gwen’s wrist. She’d washed it for her only that morning, combing quickly in the bath’s fading steam. It smelled like copper and violets. Gwen bit her lip, then gasped, hand throbbing with new pain. 

“Sorry,” Morgana said, wrapping a strip of clean white linen around the wound. She glanced up, smiling. “Not so bad?” 

“No,” Gwen replied, clearing her throat. “Thank you, my lady.” Morgana’s thumb was stroking over her wrist. She felt dizzy. Was it the splinter? 

“Brave girl,” Morgana whispered, smile wavering. Mair’s spider-glass wings twitched, perched quietly on the delicate skin of her shoulder. She gripped Gwen’s hand tighter, then relaxed, as if to let her slip away again. 

It was madness. It was madness that made Gwen grasp Morgana’s fingers, twining them clumsily, unwilling to let go, to step away from the heat at the center of this cold and unhappy room. Morgana’s lips were pink, flushed, parting slightly; her eyes were dark, green as early spring, her breath was violets, and without looking, without daring to look, Gwen leaned closer, brushing warm lips against her cheek. 

The tiny sound made Morgana shiver, and Gwen pulled back, ice clawing suddenly at her gut. Madness. Sweet dark lunacy that would make her die of wanting, oh gods, that wanting, to see her shiver, to tear off her nightgown, to see her naked and flushed and full with delight--

“Good night, my lady,” she said, smoothing the tremble from her voice. She turned, fair racing out of the room, shutting the door as quickly as she dared. 

Gwen stumbled blindly down the hallway, tracing the clammy stone with one hand. She held the other tight against her breast. 

 

\---

 

“That was foolish,” Dilys muttered. She was chilled beneath her fur, curled up tight beside Gwen in the crook of the stairwell. “What were we thinking?”

Gwen wrapped her arm around Dilys’ neck, stroking her shaggy white ruff. “We weren’t,” she replied, simply. Dilys turned, pushing her cold wet nose into the crook of Gwen’s neck. “What if she’s angry with us?”

Gwen hugged her dæmon tighter, resting her chin on the top of Dilys’ head. “I don’t think she would be,” she said doubtfully. “She didn’t seem…” _(disgusted? unwilling?)_ “...offended.” 

Dilys whined, tail thumping nervously. “I don’t want her to send us away. We can’t get so close again.” They both shuddered, thinking of the morning to come; the undressing, the bathing, tugging a corset tight, lacing the bodice of a silken dress--

“It’ll sort out in the end,” Gwen murmured, tugging Dilys’ ear gently. “I know it will.” 

She drowsed, stiff with cold but unwilling to return to the servant’s quarters just yet. She was half-asleep, face buried in Dilys’ side, when footsteps began to echo down the staircase. 

Gwen jolted awake, scrambling back into the shadows as the sound grew louder. The window-alcove was just large enough to hide a young woman and her trembling dæmon; she bit her knuckle as a tall figure turned the corner, missing the pair by a hand’s breadth. The faint moonlight from the window glinted, ruddy silver, in his hair. A louder tread approached, echoing sharply against the stone of the broad stairwell. The floor trembled as a vast black shape eclipsed Gwen’s vision, acid musk filling her lungs. 

The auroch moved with a slow, commanding gait, following the King down the granite steps. _I thought cows couldn’t go down stairs,_ Gwen thought, biting her lip to stifle a hysterical giggle. The hoofbeats died away; an oak door creaked shut in the landing below. 

Gwen peeked around the alcove into the stairwell proper. Torchlight flickered, casting weird shadows in the muddled darkness of the hall. Quiet as a moth’s wing, she tiptoed down the stairs, followed loyally by Dilys. She was halfway down the hallway, and might have even made back it to her quarters, if she hadn’t heard the voices creeping out from behind the door. 

“Is the condemned ready for transport?” The man’s voice was high and soft, lilting, strangely accented. Gwen froze, despite Dilys’ anxious shiver, holding her breath to better listen. She heard a rumble of assent -- Isolde -- and realized that, so strange had the night been, she’d forgotten to wonder what had brought the King to such a dark corner of the castle, holding council at such an unkind hour. 

“He’s being held in the dungeons, under heavy guard.” Uther’s voice was hoarse, but cold as ever. She feared that voice. “He slaughtered many of our men before we could restrain him. Even for a Druid, his powers are formidable.” 

“Good,” the stranger replied. “That is good. His sacrifice will tear the infestation out at its root.” Gwen pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear. She wasn’t given to eavesdropping, but something about the man’s silken voice was enthralling, terrifying. 

“Your Order has completed all necessary preparations?” Uther asked, voice dark. “I need not remind you of the consequences if the ritual should fail.” 

_Ritual?_ Gwen mouthed at Dilys. The stranger murmured something she couldn’t catch. Something about a crown. She heard footsteps approaching the door; stumbling backwards, she sprinted down the hall, throat tight with fear. She threw herself behind a crumbling statue, gathering Dilys roughly to her side. The door creaked open. 

“Pleasant dreams, my King.” Light footfalls, faint smell of sweat. A large white bird trotting on spindly legs. Its eyes were black, beak long and wicked. It paused, waiting; a man in coarse black robes followed, hair a faint blond wisp. He murmured quietly in a foreign tongue. 

Gwen muffled a sigh of relief as they passed around a corner. The door still hung open, but the King did not appear; all was silent. Pulse racing, Gwen stepped into the hall, padding as quickly as she could towards the servant’s wing. That was more than enough excitement for one night, she thought. 

 

\---

 

“You’re absolutely sure, Gwen?” 

Merlin’s voice was uncharacteristically serious. He glanced over his shoulder. The kitchen was busy preparing breakfast; the usual bustle and good-natured shouting was more than enough to cover a quiet conversation between one secret warlock and one maidservant who, frankly, might have finally gone round the twist. “You’re not having me on? This isn’t some elaborate prank?” 

“I wouldn’t joke about this, Merlin!” Gwen hissed, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “And yes! I’m certain. Dilys remembers, so it wasn’t a dream. Though…” She flushed. “The whole night _was_ a bit...strange.” 

“Stranger than the King conspiring to commit a ritual human sacrifice?” Merlin said skeptically. “That’s _old_ magic, Gwen. Dark magic. And this is Uther we’re talking about! He eats dark sorcerers for breakfast!” 

“That’s just it,” Gwen replied excitedly. “The prisoner he was talking about--it’s a Druid, Merlin. He’s being held in the dungeons. That’s who the man is going to sacrifice.” 

Merlin scratched the back of his neck. “If Uther performed a magic ritual, you think he’d have to cut his own head off? _Ow,”_ he complained, “you’re more violent than usual today--” 

“Merlin! Focus! We have to tell someone!” 

“Oh, that’ll go over well. ‘Yes, Arthur, your father’s executing another sorcerer, only this time it’s part of a nefarious magical plot, would you mind calling the guards if it’s not too much bother?’ He’d have me out the window before I even finished the bloody sentence.” 

She glared, then pushed past him. “I’m telling Gaius. He’ll know what to do.” 

Merlin grabbed her arm. “No, wait!” He looked at her nervously. “I need to head back there anyway, I’ll tell him. You go see to Morgana.” She flinched. “You alright there, Gwen?” he continued, peering closer. “You look a bit sick.”

“Long night,” she said, forcing a smile. “That’s all. Don’t worry about me, Merlin.”

“Of course I worry about you,” he said, smirking. “You’re my mad best friend and you’re going to get us all executed.”

“Oh, ta very much,” she replied, shoving him lightly. “Go on, then. Find me later and tell me what Gaius said.” 

“As you say, my ladyship,” Merlin said, sweeping into a bow. She laughed, her step lighter as she wove through the bustling kitchen, and even Dilys’ tail was wagging faintly. He waited until she was out of sight before bolting back down the hall. 

 

\---

 

“Gaius!” he bellowed, bursting through the doors. Gaius glanced up from a thick volume, irritated. “Must you thunder about like a drunken hippogriff, Merlin?” he snapped, no real heat in his voice. 

“Gaius,” he panted, planting his hands on the table, “you’re not going to believe this.” Maddox pricked his ears, glancing up from the book. “Well, don’t leave us in suspense,” the bat replied mildly. 

He took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. “Last night Gwen overheard the King conspiring with some foreigner to ritually sacrifice a Druid?” he said, weakly. 

Gaius exchanged a look with his dæmon. “Is this a solstice prank, Merlin? I really thought you were too old for such tomfoolery.”

“That’s what I said!” Merlin cried, as Aithusa emerged from his pocket and scampered onto the table. “I trust Dilys,” the vole said firmly. “And Gwen’s a good sort. She wouldn’t lie to us.” 

Gaius leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Merlin, what do you suggest I do? I can’t simply barge into the throne room and accuse the King of treason. Besides, much to our misfortune, killing Druids is entirely within the King’s prerogative.” Maddox fluttered onto his shoulder. 

“Execution, maybe, but -- human sacrifice is dark magic!” 

Gaius’ eyes shuttered. “The darkest of all magics. Which is why I refuse to believe the King would involve himself in such a task. He is single-minded in his hatred of sorcerers, Merlin, why on earth would he willingly consort with them?” 

“I don’t know!” Merlin replied, looking mutinous. “I was hoping you could tell me!” Aithusa shifted into a grey cat, lashing his tail furiously. 

Maddox lit into the air, swooping dizzily in circles before lighting on a small, cramped bookshelf in the far side of the room. “Here, you two,” he called impatiently. Merlin followed, Aithusa leaping down to trail at his heels. 

The bat nosed at a grim black volume, covered in a thick layer of grime. Merlin plucked it from the shelf, making a face as reddish-brown flakes crumbled from the cover. “Gods, is that--”

“Best not to inquire, my boy,” Maddox replied, launching back into the air and landing on an adjoining shelf. 

Merlin turned the book over curiously, finding no title or markings. He flipped it open, then slammed it quickly shut. Too late; the illustrations were already burned into his brain, violent and terrible. “What is this?” 

Gaius had appeared behind his shoulder, and was exchanging a stern look with his dæmon. “That is a book you should not concern yourself with,” he said, snatching it from his hands. “It provides the answers to questions you should not ask, Merlin. Some knowledge is too terrible to be known, even to a sorcerer as powerful as yourself.” 

“The boy wanted to learn,” Maddox said quietly. “If there is dark magic brewing--” 

“Then there is nothing we can do for now,” Gaius retorted, reshelving the book. “Return to your duties and put this whole business out of your head, Merlin. Let me do the worrying, if I must.” 

The door slammed shut moments later, and Gaius ran his hands through his wild white mane. “Gods, Maddox, surely even Uther would not be so arrogant, so desperate…” 

Maddox fluttered to his shoulder, clinging tightly. He gave no answer.


End file.
